


Over and Beyond (Expectations)

by Elenothar



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Fíli & Kíli & Bofur are the best, Gandalf is mostly amused, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Thorin is helpless when it comes to hobbits, Thorin plays the harp just because, and keep Bilbo sane, and probably planned all of this all along, made up things about the afterlife, slow building romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course things are never easy when you are travelling with a band of dwarves and sometimes a wizard with all kinds of nasty things making life on the road even harder and a dragon looming at the end of the journey, which is possibly the reason that it takes Thorin half the journey to figure out that he has some suspiciously romantic feelings toward their very own hobbit burglar and until past Mirkwood to finally do something definite about it.</p><p>A story about two particularly stubborn blind people, a very slow romance, and what might or might not be fate (though it feels a lot like love).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Bilbo (1)

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by [this](http://ironfries.tumblr.com/post/39019538055/wanted-one-50-000-some-word-thilbo-bagginshield-fic) post on tumblr demanding a slow building Thilbo epic (though this is probably not going to end up being quite 50k long). Don't judge me, I don't know what I was thinking starting this, either.
> 
> This story mostly follows the movie canon, with a few things from the book thrown in. Warning: There WILL be spoilers for the ending of the book/movie in later chapters!

*

For Bilbo it starts, well it starts at the beginning. It starts when night-time falls on his comfortable hobbit hole and he listens to twelve dwarves singing of their losses and desires, their loneliness and hope in the dark, the deep voice of Thorin Oakenshield soaring above all others. It is not magic, at least not the kind that Gandalf the wizard commands, yet it moves him deeply – far more deeply than anything else he has ever experienced (safe perhaps, for watching petals and rain showers in the sky with wide eyes and explosions of light in all hues brightening the night when he was just a little tot).

He doesn’t know it then, but this is the moment his journey truly begins.

*

By the time the third day of riding through still mostly pleasant country-side rolls around, Bilbo has finally managed to match every dwarf to the right name in the morning, an accomplishment he is actually quite proud of, seeing as none of them have made any concerted effort to re-introduce themselves after the first night. He has also ridden himself sore in places he has never consciously realized are even part of his body, has needed to actually use Bofur’s scrap of cloth instead of his already much-missed handkerchief, has not got a full night’s sleep due to the dwarves incessant snoring, and been shouted at by Thorin at least five times. In fact, it has been exactly six times – he knows this because he can recall every occasion in horridly vivid detail. The dwarf king does not seem too fond of Bilbo and his commanding presence makes it very hard to ignore his scolding. But, on the other hand, Bilbo has also caught Thorin just watching him more than once, usually inciting a mixture of nervousness and worry, since he has no idea _why_ the other keeps looking at him. At times he wonders if he is simply making up these covert glances – Bilbo loves nature and loves watching the green country-side slide by, but even he can get tired of staring at trees or grass all day.

His suspicions on Thorin’s staring are proven when they make camp that night. Bombur cooks, as he has done every night so far- though if you ask Bilbo, calling it cooking is a slight exaggeration, what with only having a small fire and a few pots at hand –  and Bilbo, as usual, is sent to bring the sentries their share, in this case Thorin. Habitually quiet as he is, neither Thorin nor Balin, who has apparently joined the younger dwarf on his watch, notice the hobbit drawing near. Bilbo stops, just within earshot, his natural curiosity rearing its head.

“You’ve taken to watching the hobbit a lot,” the white-haired dwarf says, sounding neither reprimanding nor glad, just stating a fact, and Bilbo’s ears perk up. They’re talking about him – as far as he is concerned this gives him the right to listen in.

“I have?” Thorin responds mostly non-committal, though Bilbo fancies he hears a tiny thread of surprise in his voice.

Balin chuckles lightly. “Nearly everyone has noticed. Why, Bofur asked me just this morning if poor Mr. Baggins has something unfortunate on his face that makes our illustrious leader watch him so much.”

 Bilbo’s hand creeps up to his face reflexively, even though he knows there is nothing there. Thorin does not seem to find it funny either, for he huffs, “I’m simply trying to make up my mind if the halfling possesses the potential Gandalf claims he has. So far I’ve yet to see it.”

Bilbo barely manages to refrain from making his displeasure at that audible. It is not as if he has had the chance to steal anything yet, has he? Only then he remembers that Bilbo Baggins from Bag End is not, in fact, actually a burglar and therefore quite happy with not having to prove his non-existent talent.

A few meters away Balin sighs, in the way that every father, no matter which race, would recognize. “If you say so, laddie. Just try to do your ‘evaluation’ a little subtler in future, yes?”

The hidden hobbit suspects that if it were anyone but Balin speaking to him in such a way, Thorin would do more than bristle at the other’s disbelief. “What are you trying to suggest, Balin?”

“Never you mind laddie.” Balin pats his liege on the shoulder once, companionably, and wanders off, leaving behind only a confused king, and a similarly baffled hobbit.

After a few seconds, Bilbo remembers the dish of food in his hand and his job to deliver it. Making as much noise as he can – no need to sneak up any more on a sword-happy dwarf – he proceeds towards the rock Thorin has chosen as a lookout place.

“What are you doing here, halfling?” Thorin grunts, looking about as ill-tempered as his tone of voice suggests.

“It seems I’ve been designated dinner errant boy,” Bilbo replies mildly, holding out the dish. “At least it’s something useful for me to do.”

Thorin stares at it for a moment, as if it might bite him, then takes the bowl. “And do you think there is something else you might contribute to our company?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I could certainly cook, but Bombur guards the food store most ardently.”

It’s only there for a second, but Thorin’s lips twitch. Bilbo feels oddly proud – and immediately decides that now would be a good time to retreat, lest something else he says or does ruin the mood and send Thorin back to his usual frustration with the hobbit.

*

Bilbo rides next to Bofur the following day, finding much to his joy that it is quite easy to carry on a conversation with the good-natured dwarf. Apparently the whole company is out to upend his carefully cultivated ideas about dwarves – a few weeks ago he would not have dreamed that he might be talking about gardening of all things with a _dwarf_ (he fleetingly thinks that Hamfast Gamgee would probably have a coronary at the thought – or jump with joy, it is usually a little hard to tell with the gardener when it comes to his favourite subject).

Bofur is quickly becoming his favourite, conversations about gardening aside, simply because he does not treat Bilbo much differently than he does the other dwarves. He also makes the hobbit laugh, and sometimes plays the flute to cheer him up when the reality of his hair-brained decision to join this quest catches up to him. In short, he might very well be becoming Bilbo Baggins’ friend.

They’re in the middle of debating the merits of wild bee honey, with Bofur insisting that the thrill of distracting the bees long enough to procure it is definitely worth the risk and Bilbo firmly in the corner of the Shire’s home grown honey, when Thorin reigns in his pony next to them and snaps, “Could you two stop nattering on? At least talk about relevant subjects if you have to distract everyone with your fast mouths.”

Bilbo immediately blushes in embarrassment, even though Thorin is already guiding his dark-pelted pony back to the front of the column. Bofur on the other hand, just smiles indulgently.

“Don’t mind him little Baggins. He’s under a lot of strain right now.” His smile turns a little wicked, though still amused as he leans closer conspiratorially. “If he didn’t like you, he would be ignoring you instead.”

Bilbo is sure Thorin’s resulting growl and glare from up front would have skinned anyone else alive, but Bofur remains entirely unbothered.

“Likes me,” Bilbo repeats disbelievingly and snorts. He cannot really imagine Thorin liking any non-dwarf much, let alone useless little Bilbo Baggins.

Thorin is now staring resolutely ahead. Bofur winks at him and he could have sworn he hears a muffled snigger from the direction of Fíli and Kíli.

Strange people, dwarves. Confusing as well. Bilbo sighs once more and returns his attention to the path ahead.

For once the company remains mostly silent, everyone indulging Thorin’s sour mood. Only Gandalf is whistling merrily at the rear, puffing on his pipe, entirely unaffected by the quiet around him – but those are wizards for you.

So they plod on, exchanging wide, sweeping fields for a more rocky terrain, until Thorin suddenly halts, frowning.

“What is that noise?”

A second later Bilbo hears it too, with no little wonder.

“Cows,” he says, cocking his head a little. “And sheep.”

He receives more than a few blank stares from the surrounding dwarves.

“You really don’t know what life stock sounds like?” he asks, blinking a little.

Gloin shrugs pragmatically on the pony in front of him. “We usually encounter them as meat once they’re dead.”

Bilbo cannot really tell whether he is joking or not – a frequent problem, as trying to read a dwarf’s face proves almost impossible for the hobbit every time he tries.

He does not get the time to figure it out, as the cause of the mooing and baaing rounds the bend in front of them, along with a troop of ragged-looking men.

Everyone freezes for about as long as it takes Bilbo’s heart to properly start jumping in fright before the first arrow starts flying.

A moment later the path is full of panicked ponies and dwarves swinging to the ground, battle ready with various weapons appearing in their hands. Quite by accident Bilbo’s eyes catch sight of Thorin in full battle mode and he finds that much to his shock he simply cannot look away. All the dwarves are skilled with their weapons of choice, but Thorin… Thorin moves with breath-taking grace as he swirls his sword around, incapacitating attacker after attacker. Bilbo’s mouth suddenly goes inexplicably dry.

Meanwhile Myrtle, possessing far more sense than her distracted rider, moves behind the relative safety of a man high rock next to the path (later it will occur to Bilbo to be more than grateful that Thorin had given him the most unflappable pony of the troop, for he would surely have had a nasty fall otherwise).

The unexpected movement beneath him finally has Bilbo tearing his gaze away from their dwarven leader, for all that he has the disturbing feeling that he could easily watch Thorin Oakenshield forever and not mind the passing of time.

It is by pure chance that his gaze falls on the man pulling the string of his bow back to his ear on top of a tall rock ahead, yet unnoticed by the dwarves, instead. It takes Bilbo a split second to see who he is aiming at and then he is shouting, voice high and desperate, “Fíli look out! _Duck_!”

It is as close to a miracle as Bilbo has ever witnessed when Fíli, against all odds, hears the hobbit’s high voice over the din of battle and immediately lets himself fall to the ground without question. The arrow therefore passes over the young dwarf’s head harmlessly, and Bilbo can suddenly breathe again, the roar of his blood and wild thumping of his heart overly loud in his own ears. A moment later the human archer topples from his perch with a strangled cry, felled by Kíli in defence of his brother.

After that the battle is soon over. A group of mostly ill-equipped and untrained men does not pose a serious threat to a battle-hardy group of dwarves. They even manage to recover all their bolted ponies, thanks to Gandalf, who does a strange trilling sound with his lips which calls all of them back to the party.

Feeling emboldened by his useful contribution to the fight – so he had not been jumping around hacking at people, but they already have enough dwarves doing that and none keeping a watchful eye out (he does not intent to mention that he only spotted the threat by chance, no he does not) – Bilbo sidles up to Thorin, who is inspecting one of the fallen men.

 “Who were they?” he asks, partially because it seems a safe topic for conversation, but mostly because he is genuinely curious.

Thorin shrugs, not seeming much interested. “Robbers and bandits most likely. Look at this livestock, it’s certainly not theirs to keep, judging by the state these animals are in.”

He is right. Many of the cows and sheep are far too thin, obviously underfed, and they are not even close to good grazing land.

“Shouldn’t we be giving these animals back to whomever they belong to?” Bilbo dares to venture next.

Thorin snorts derisively. “And how do you propose we do that, halfling? Do _you_ know who they belong to? We don’t have the time to let every little thing distract us if we ever wish to see the end of our quest.”

“Right, of course, sorry,” Bilbo mumbles, blushing in mortification. “It was a stupid thought.”

Faced with a stammering, embarrassed hobbit even Thorin apparently cannot remain completely unaffected, for his face softens a little and he says, “A kind one though. Now run along Mr. Baggins.”

He does so gratefully, if still embarrassed. Not that he gets far, however, as Fíli and Kíli appear in front of him, simultaneously as is their habit.

Fíli addresses him first, bowing deeply, his hands on his thighs with the open palm facing outward (the dwarven sign of peace, as the hands grip no weapon). “I am in your debt, Bilbo Baggins.”

“ _We_ are in your debt,” Kíli chimes in a second later, repeating the gesture, leaving poor Bilbo quite flustered, and perplexed over how to respond.

“No, no, let us not talk about debts,” he says quickly, a little uncomfortable under the two discerning gazes trained on his figure. “Without all of you I would never have come this far.”

“Without all of us you would still be comfortable in your burrow,” Fíli points out reasonably and Bilbo is relieved enough that he is not pressing the matter of debts that he lets the ‘burrow’ comment slide.

Even he is surprised when the next words that slip out are, “Yet maybe I don’t want to be there.”

Simultaneous grins appear on the dwarf brothers’ faces, and almost something like pride.

Fíli pats him on the shoulder. “We will make a hobbit-warrior out of you yet, Master Baggins.”

For a moment Bilbo expects to feel disquieted, uncomfortable even, at the mere suggestion, but he finds that he feels none of that. It appears that Gandalf had been right – again, as usual – he really is a changed hobbit already, no more than a week into their journey.

“I doubt I’m made of the stuff of warriors, Master Fíli,” he finally says, “but have my thanks for the kind thought.”

Unbidden, the image of Thorin in an intricate dance with sword and foe rises to his mind’s eye. A hobbit-warrior? No, probably not.

*

Having found growing friends in the youngest dwarf brothers, of course the first thing Bilbo manages to do is get lost with them. To be fair, it is not really their fault, but Bilbo doubts Thorin is going to see it that way when he figures out that they are going to lose more time because of them.

Bilbo looks glumly at the fork in the road in front of them. Very unfortunate indeed, the whole incident.

Bilbo had been riding between Kíli and Fíli at the end of the column when Kíli’s horse had stumbled on the rocky ground, nearly throwing Kíli and dislodging one of his travel bags. They had already been lagging behind a bit (Bilbo suspects that that is Fíli and Kíli’s way of trying to protect him at least a little from the heightened pace Thorin has set, but he will surely not mention his theory if they will not) and with night time fast approaching the rest of the company had, in their hurry to find a good spot to make camp, failed to notice their absence.

By the time they had finished repacking the bag and fixed it on the troublesome pony’s back, there had been no trace of the rest of the company to be seen in the growing dusk. That had only, however, become a problem once they had reached the fork in the road Bilbo is now staring at so disconsolately. One look at Kíli and Fíli reveals that they are quite lost as to which way to go as well and now the two dwarves are whispering urgently behind his back. The only plan they can come up with is to send Kíli down one path, have him return when he sees the rest of the company or when he is getting too far away and in case of the latter doing the same with the other path.

It is hardly a failsafe plan and no one is surprised when Kíli finally returns from the second path, shaking his head.

“What do we do now?” Bilbo asks quietly, trying to keep his growing anxiety out of his voice.

“We cannot risk going down the wrong path,” Fíli replies, already leading his horse over to a few straggly birches a bit off from the path. “We should stay near here for the night so that the others can easily find us tomorrow.”

Bilbo eyes the scanty cover of the trees dubiously, but nevertheless follows him with Myrtle in tow. “I’m more worried about what _else_ might easily find us.”

“Don’t worry yourself needlessly, Master Baggins,” Kíli calls from where he is already setting up his bed-roll. “We will not let anything happen to you.”

There is such stout belief in his words and sincerity in Fíli’s accompanying nod that Bilbo does not doubt their skill, yet it is hard for him not to be at least a little afraid out of the safety of the company.

Neither of the dwarves mention his obvious distress, but once all preparations are done, they set about trying to take Bilbo’s thoughts off their current predicament. Kíli tells an embarrassing story about Fíli from their childhood, in which the dwarf is accidentally mistaken for a young dwarf woman by a passing human trader. Fíli promptly retaliates by telling an even more embarrassing story, involving Kíli, an inn in Bree, a little too much to drink and a very irate Thorin Oakenshield.

Bilbo is sure he even spots a slight blush on the dark-haired dwarf’s cheeks as he mumbles sullenly, “Uncle never did have a good sense of humour.”

That brings Bilbo up short. “What? Thorin is your _uncle_?”

“Aye, indeed, our mother’s brother,” Fíli replies, giving him a strange look. “Why are you so surprised?”

Truthfully, Bilbo has a very hard time imagining Thorin with any kind of family. He coughs lightly.

“Well, he doesn’t strike me as the family type,” he starts hesitatingly, trying to phrase his thoughts in the least offending way possible. “He doesn’t seem very… nice.”

Amused chuckles meet his stumbled explanation.

“No, generally our uncle isn’t very nice, as you put it, dear hobbit. Yet he can be kind and generous and once he has taken you into his heart you could wish for no better friend. You should not be fooled by his gruff exterior so easily, Master Baggins, for he uses it as much as armour as he does real chain mail.”

Now that he thinks about it, Bilbo can, strangely, imagine that too. Or perhaps he just wants to believe it. And now both Fíli and Kíli are looking at him with a slightly terrifying amount of focus again.

“Say, Master Baggins, what do you think of our uncle?”

This should, by rights, be dangerous territory, but Bilbo does not feel any suspicion emanating from the brothers, just curiosity.

“He seems to me a good leader and a formidable warrior,” Bilbo hedges, stating only the most obvious of truths.

Kíli’s smile widens. “Is that all?”

Much to his horror Bilbo can feel himself blushing, hoping to the Valar that it is already dark enough to hide the red creeping into his face from the two dwarf brothers’ discerning eyes.

“Should there _be_ more?”

Once again the only reply he gets is matching amusement. Fíli is the one who finally rescues him from his embarrassment. “You should try to get some sleep, Master Baggins. Uncle Thorin will want to push on farther tomorrow to make up lost time.”

“Shouldn’t we be taking watches?” he asks, gratefully latching onto the far more harmless topic.

This time it is Kíli who reassures him. “Don’t you worry about it. We will stand guard.”

Bilbo might have protested that he can make himself useful too and does not need to be coddled, but he is tired and if Kíli and Fíli want to be nice to him who is he to complain?

He falls asleep surprisingly quickly, glad that his mind does not stubbornly dwell on a certain dwarf before succumbing to weariness this night. His last thought as he slips away into sleep is that having friends on this journey is proving to be a very good thing indeed, even if they insist on asking him questions he cannot properly answer.

*

It has been raining all day. By the time they make camp, Bilbo is more than thoroughly wet, cold, and absolutely miserable. The top layer of his bags is drenched, including his bedroll, so he tries to huddle as close to the fire as possible, attempting to catch the most warmth he can manage. Most of the dwarves are better off, at least having worn slightly water-repelling cloaks and being equipped with baggage more fit for travel. Right now Bilbo fervently wishes for either of those, as sleep seems as far away as ever getting dry again.

Huddling in his wet blanket, Bilbo tries to hide his violent shivering. He does not need Thorin thinking him even more of a useless piece of baggage, especially after the recent episode of getting lost with Fíli and Kíli (as predicted, Thorin had not been happy, to say the least, however Bilbo had been fascinated to see, now that he knows they are Thorin’s sister-sons, that he does treat them a little differently than the others, with a little more long-suffering understanding and affection). He is pretty sure he has caught Ori giving him sympathetic looks while fiddling with his slightly damp cardigan, but Bofur is busy cleaning and putting away the remnants of dinner and Fíli and Kíli are looking after the ponies, so he does not expect anyone to actually approach him. Consequently, he jumps violently when footsteps sound directly behind him, followed by a deep sigh.

“Why did you not say you were freezing, halfling?” Thorin asks, a curious mix of irritation and concern colouring his voice.

Bilbo scrambles up as fast as a hobbit who has spotted mushrooms in the wild.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, looking anywhere but at the frowning dwarf in front of him. “I didn’t think it important.”

For a moment Thorin continues watching him, dark eyes inscrutable, then he sighs again. “Come here.”

Bilbo stares at him. “What?”

“I said _come here_ ,” Thorin repeats, impatience now prevalent. “You are of no use to anyone if you freeze to death.”

When Bilbo does not make a move to obey, he simply takes the hobbit’s arm and drags him along to a free spot. Bilbo is so surprised that he does not even try to move away when Thorin slides out of his big coat, drapes it on the ground, and then tugs Bilbo down with him. He yelps, landing flat on his back next to _Thorin Oakenshield_ , who is now tugging the edges of his cloak around them both to keep the warmth in – the action creates a snug cocoon of hobbit, dwarf, and thick cloth. Bilbo thinks he might start hyperventilating any second. The poor hobbit lies stiff as a board, determined to ignore the feeling of Thorin at his side (it is a nice feeling, a very nice feeling in fact, warm and surprisingly comfortable) and resisting the urge of snuggling closer to the warm body next to him.

“Relax,” Thorin tells him quietly, sounding, much to Bilbo’s quickly growing embarrassment, unreasonably amused of all things. Of course he has to pick this situation to show a streak of humour. “I’m not going to eat you.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Bilbo grumbles defiantly, but he does relax his muscles a little, sinking back into the soft coat. He really is rather tired, after all.

The last thing he hears before falling asleep is Thorin’s quiet, “Go to sleep, halfling.”

He sleeps better than he can remember sleeping for a long time.

When he wakes the next morning, Thorin is already gone – he left the coat, though, and only reclaims it once Bilbo is properly up. Neither of them makes a comment about the past night – Bilbo because he is already embarrassed enough and would not know what to say anyway, and Thorin, well, no one knows why Thorin does what he does (save for Balin and sometimes Dwalin, his companions of old), especially not Bilbo.

At least, with a restful night behind him, the hobbit feels up to another day’s journey for once, even if he is slightly distracted for the rest of the day.


	2. Part I: Bilbo (2)

  
*

If Bilbo had known he would nearly end up as troll food when he had decided to accompany the dwarves on their quest, he would surely have refrained from stepping out of his door at all (and for a good long while to be on the safe side), much less go on a mad and dangerous adventure. At least that would also have spared him the stench of the troll cave, though, truth be told, he is far too lost in his own thoughts to mind anything much at the moment. Going from almost certain belief that he is going to die, ripped apart by trolls, to something almost like happiness that Thorin would risk his own life and that of the rest of the company to save him, would disconcert anyone, never mind a generally peace-loving hobbit. Of course there is also the matter of him nearly having been the reason for all the dwarves’ and his own death, but he tries not to think about that too much. There is nothing he can do about it now and he already feels useless enough without dwelling on his misfortunes.

Having decided not to go any farther into the troll cave than necessary lest his poor nose decides to revolt, Bilbo watches the dwarves milling about from the far back.

His lips quirk at Bofur, Nori, and Gloin’s ‘long-term deposit’, but then his gaze falls, once more, like a magnet drawn to another, on Thorin, who is looking at the three dwarfs with something so unbearably broken in his expression that Bilbo feels the sudden insane urge to go and comfort him somehow. For a moment he does not understand what put that shattered look on Thorin’s face, after all they are all _fine_ now are they not, but then he realizes what the other dwarves’ long time deposit must look like to their leader. They are on a quest to the Erebor, a dwarven kingdom full of treasures beyond imagination and yet, and yet here they are, putting away a little chest of gold like every bit will be important someday. Bilbo sees, sympathy for Thorin tugging almost painfully at his heart, how heart it must be to watch them so casually dismiss the chance of being successful, or not having thought about the end of the journey at all, _especially_ for Thorin, their leader, the proud descendant of kings whose home they are now seeking to reclaim. Perhaps Thorin even sees the possibility of them not coming back, of death at the end of the road, in this little act – one way or another, they will probably never return to reclaim their long term deposit.

With a last glance at the three, Thorin turns to leave, face schooled in his usual grim expression once more. For a seond he looks at Bilbo, reads something in the hobbit’s gaze for he quietly turns away without acknowledging him.

Not wanting in the least to end up the last in this hideous place, Bilbo quickly hurries after him. It seems this little moment is bound to be just another one of those things that no one will ever talk about, especially not the two it concerns. It does not even occur to Bilbo to be surprised at how well he can read Thorin, even though understanding is nothing to be taken lightly. In his defence, the following events do rather chase any questions about Thorin’s emotional state out of Bilbo’s head, distracting as they are. He doubts very much he is ever going to get used to nearly getting killed and he emphatically does not want to either.

*

Rivendell is, well, Rivendell is beyond comprehension and imagination of a simple hobbit, but if Bilbo had to frame the place into words, he would name it one he would gladly spend the days of his life in – which, coming from a hobbit, could not be higher praise indeed. It is close to the Shire in that it is peaceful and calm and green and yet there is also something magical in the air and elves all around, which in Bilbo’s opinion can only be a good thing. Of course the dwarves and especially Thorin disagree on that count, so Bilbo has kept this mostly to himself, even if every idiot with eyes can see that he deeply appreciates this place.

Once Bilbo stumbles over the library quite by accident the first morning (he would have probably got around to asking an elf for the way eventually, despite their slightly aloof air that had kept him away before), much to his joy, he takes to spending most of his time there. It is not that he wants to get away from the dwarves, per say, but he does crave a slight reprieve from the boisterous lot, however much they have become endeared to him. And there is also the matter of Thorin himself, who Bilbo would rather not meet for a while, either. He desperately needs some time to clear his head from these utterly ridiculous notions his mind is concocting a little too vividly for his peace of mind and all those glances he cannot seem to stop throwing the other’s way are definitely not helping the matter. He would rather avoid Thorin ever finding out about that, thank you very much, for the dwarf already thinks poorly enough of him.

Of course there is also the matter of all the wonderful books and scrolls in Lord Elrond’s library. Though Bilbo’s Elvish is nowhere near good enough to read most of them, there are plenty of tomes in common Westron, many of them very old and most also very interesting to a curious hobbit, who has made a bit of a habit of being scholarly in his life. It is no hardship in the least to while away many hours in the company of texts on nature, plants, history, and everything else one might imagine. There are not many visitors to disturb the peace and quiet and only one dark-haired elf keeping a rather constant watch, though he mostly leaves Bilbo alone (after the first warning looks) when he sees that the books are always returned to the right spot, in the same pristine condition as before. Eventually the elf even introduces himself to Bilbo as Lord Erestor, chief counsellor of Elrond Peredhil and, by choice, the resident librarian, grudgingly pleased by the rapidly reading hobbit in his domain.

The first surprise comes in the form of the only dwarf to visit the library – Ori, who soon spends almost as much time there as Bilbo, buried in similar tomes, though his tastes tend towards accounts of history rather than all that grows. They get to talking, mostly about the things they read in the books, until Bilbo asks thoughtfully (the question having been on his mind for a while), a few days after Ori’s first appearance in the library, “How did you come to join the company?”

Ori looks up from the thick leather-bound history of the second age in Beleriand in front of him. “I volunteered, we all did. Thorin would not force anyone onto this quest.”

“Why did you volunteer then, if you don’t mind me asking,” Bilbo presses, curious.

Ori takes a while to answer, mulling the question over. “Have you ever, well, read of places in books or heard of them in stories, places invoked by colourful words, places that sound so magical that you can’t help but want to go there to see for yourself the splendour the books describe?”

Bilbo nods mutely. He knows that feeling only all too well.

“There are a lot of stories about Erebor that travelled with the survivors when they came to the Ered Luin.” His gaze turns inward, sadder than is the usually rather well-spirited dwarf’s wont. “Oh Bilbo, you’ve never heard a story told if you haven’t heard Thorin talk about the days that were. We would all gladly lie down our lives only for him to have a chance at reclaiming his old home and perhaps even happiness, even if not all of us have ever glimpsed the old kingdom of Erebor in our life-time.”

Bilbo nods again, thinking of the grief and longing on Thorin’s face when Balin had told the story of his becoming that night in the trollshaws. He can understand loyalty to that dwarf, dedication to replacing the hollowness in his eyes with happiness – he understands it, maybe better than he wishes himself to.

Ori’s voice shakes him out of his thoughts. “I was one of the few who wagered that you would turn up, you know.”

“Why?” Bilbo asks, slightly surprised, since it can be argued that none of the dwarves knew him at all after only one night of enjoying his (forced) hospitality and it should have been hard to judge someone based on that.

Ori shrugs and, looking at him, Bilbo is reminded once again that, though he might _look_ young and be, in fact, one of the youngest of the company, Ori is still far older than he appears and by no means young by hobbit reckoning. “Perhaps I simply wished you would. I liked the look of your, what do you call it, _hobbit hole_ , you own many books and maps, and I thought at least one kindred spirit on this journey might not hurt.” Suddenly he grins, lightening the sombre mood. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to be the smallest any longer.”

Returning his grin, Bilbo goes back to his reading, though his mind is still occupied with the unusual dwarf in front of him. Over the last week it has been easy to forget that Ori, too, is a fighter when necessary – quite a mean hand with his sling-shot, as at least one troll could attest to if he were not frozen as stone. And if a gentle dwarf like Ori could be that, Bilbo suspects that it really seems to be every dwarf’s fate to be a warrior. A different race, indeed.

Bilbo does not even notice Ori quietly departing to re-join the other dwarves for dinner, so lost is he in his thoughts.

*

They have been in Rivendell exactly a fortnight when Erestor bids him halt on his way to his favourite reading desk partly hidden in an alcove.

“Master hobbit, a word if you please.”

Slightly surprised Bilbo faces the stern-faced elf, who had, as of yet, not instigated a real conversation by hobbit standards (three sentence exchanges hardly count). Erestor holds out a small, leather-bound book to him.

“Take it. It may yet serve you well on your journey.”

Bilbo stares at him, then at the book, and then back at Erestor. He has only been in Rivendell for a fortnight and _he_ knows that Erestor covets his book most jealously. “What? Why?”

The elf sighs quietly, in a way that clearly indicates his annoyance at Bilbo’s resistance. “Some elves possess the gift of foresight, master Baggins. Usually a rather vague affair, and if not, more a burden than a gift at times, but I can safely tell you that you should do your utmost not to lose this book.”

Still Bilbo does not take it. “I might not bring it back. I mean, we’ve already nearly died several times already, not to mention lost bags and – ”

“Consider it a gift and a token of appreciation for a keen mind and kind nature,” Erestor interrupts him smoothly. “As for your concerns, this is not the only copy of this particular title in these halls. Rest easy.”

“Then I thank you,” Bilbo says earnestly, bowing his head politely, as for him it is a great gift indeed and he cannot help but feel a little flattered at Erestor’s comment, and takes the gift from the elves slender hands. After a moment’s contemplation, he tucks the little book entitled ‘Plants of the East and their Uses’ safely into the inner pocket of his red jacket.

Looking up again, he finds Erestor watching him with a curious mix of sadness and heaviness in his too-knowing eyes.

Brushing a hand over the hobbit’s forehead, he whispers, “You are _ambar ampe_ , Bilbo Baggins, fate-touched. The West will wait for you.”

Before Bilbo can make head or tails of the strange comment, Erestor has disappeared into another corner of the library, moving lighter than even a hobbit is able. Shaking his head a little – elves and their cryptic ways, never a straight answer to anything – Bilbo decides to go in search of some lunch instead of staying for more reading. Maybe food will calm his shaken mind.

Still rattled by the ominous words, he rounds the first corner leading out of the library with less care than he otherwise might have and immediately runs into a solid wall of dwarf. Bilbo stumbles, saved from falling only by the strong arm of Thorin Oakenshield.

Once he has got his breath back enough to realize what this means, Bilbo cries, for once letting anger and irritation get the better of him, “What are you doing here listening to other people’s conversations like some spy?”

“Gandalf sent word, we have to depart as soon as possible,” Thorin replies, though he sounds almost embarrassed (probably by having been caught in the act, not because of having done so in the first place, Bilbo thinks uncharitably). “We must make haste.”

“You could have _come_ to tell me that instead of listening in on a private conversation!”

At that Thorin draws himself up to his full height, obviously deciding that he is not going to take more back talk from the small hobbit in front of him. “As the leader of the company I have the right to know what its members get up to, especially if it includes getting mighty cosy with an _elf_.”

That does not exactly soothe Bilbo’s temper. “The elves you insist on hating so much have been nothing but generous and kind to us since we’ve arrived. Now I know you think me unable to understand your old grudge – ”

“Indeed I do,” Thorin interrupts him rather rudely, anger now lacing his tone as well, “for you cannot. You are neither a dwarf nor were you there that day, when the world came tumbling down and _they_ stood by and did nothing.”

Dimly Bilbo thinks that his Took side must be showing for him to be talking to Thorin like this and that this brazen attitude would get him into more trouble than he has any wish of encountering, but it is not enough to stop him from looking squarely into the dwarf’s eyes and saying, “And if it had been the elves in your situation. Would you have risked your kin, the people you had sworn to protect in the vain hope to slay a beast rumoured to not have as much as _one_ weak spot? Would you, _your highness_?”

For a moment Thorin looks at him, startled at his frankness, then his face clouds over. “At least I’m not hiding from everyone else in a dusty library all day long! You know that many of the others have asked after you already?”

That stings, for Bilbo does feel a little guilty for tucking himself away with all these books, marvellous as they may be. Not that he would even want to try to articulate to Thorin Oakenshield of all people why he had done so.

It does not escape him, however, that the obvious topic change implies that he had hit a nerve.

“Well maybe _you_ would benefit from visiting a library now and then,” he snaps back, glaring defiantly. For once he would not let himself be cowed because he is no dwarf and cannot fight like one.

Thorin glares right back, refusing to give an inch. “As a matter of fact your elf friend threw me out when I tried to do exactly that a few days ago!”

“Perhaps it would help if you didn’t do your best to seem like an illiterate ruffian then!”

And with that Bilbo stamps off down the corridor to gather his belongings before departure, leaving a slightly speechless, slightly bewildered, and still angry Thorin Oakenshield in his wake. He would probably – no, make that definitely – regret his little outburst later, but for now he feels, perhaps unreasonably, rather vindicated.

Then his mind turns to even graver matters, for example the fact that he would undoubtedly not see such fine meals as served in Rivendell for quite a while and soft and comfortable beds would also recede into distant memory. A pity, he had been looking forward to taking advantage of the latter especially.

*

When asked later if their following journey over (and under) the Misty Mountains had any positive sides amidst the constant fear of dying (or fear of other’s dying), Bilbo will answer ‘yes, one’ and think ‘two’: the ring, which has proved quite useful, and gaining Thorin’s regard.

Perhaps it is telling that Bilbo is far more occupied by the latter than by the mysterious, magic ring currently in his pocket that makes its wearer invisible. In fact, Bilbo is quite sure the events on top of the Carrock, as Gandalf calls it, will change his life as much as the decision to follow Thorin and his company in the first place.

Though he is bone-tired during their descent, firmly reinforcing the notion that hobbits simply are not cut out for this much excitement (in the word’s loosest sense), Bilbo cannot tear his mind away from the hug – the overwhelming _relief_ and the nagging fear that, now he has experienced it, he will not want to live without such again. He valiantly attempts to ban such thoughts from his mind, for he is already stumbling on the rocky, uneven ground and he should probably pay more attention to where he is setting his feet.

The notion has only barely formed in his tired, sluggish mind when, as foreseen, his toe catches on an especially hardy weed, threatening to pull him off balance. This time it is Dwalin, whose arm shoots out to steady him. Admittedly, Bilbo is usually rather intimidated by the bulky warrior with the perpetual grim expression, but he thinks that Dwalin’s “Watch where you’re going, burglar” is not as gruff as it used to be and he even bestows on Bilbo what might pass as a pat on the shoulder (if one ignores the unnecessary force of the movement – Dwalin does not always exhibit the greatest understanding of other races’ cultures and limits; or maybe he just likes to keep Bilbo off-balance, who knows). He gives the dwarf a small but grateful smile and resumes his trek down the rough path. If Thorin can walk this, injured as he is, Bilbo should surely be able to manage as well, hobbit or not.

Regardless of unbidden attacks of Took stubbornness, Bilbo is quite relieved when they reach the foot of the great rock and decide, in light of everyone’s exhaustion, to camp there, as it at least offers some protection.

Settling down between Fíli and Dori, Bilbo expects sleep to claim him quickly – and it does, however, he had not reckoned the possibility of nightmares. By the time he scrambles up from his reclining position, breathing hard and sweating, for the third time, ghastly pictures of Thorin dying in the white warg’s fangs or at the pale orc’s hands branded into his mind’s eye, Bilbo decides he might as well give up on sleep entirely. He would rather be tired the next day than see Thorin’s broken body one more time.

Rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his tired eyes, Bilbo carefully steps over assorted snoring dwarves’ legs not to burden anyone else with his sleeplessness, only to find the place he is heading for, a mossy patch of grass he had noticed upon arrival and which had looked quite comfortable, already taken by none other than the object of his dreams.

Bilbo hesitates, unsure as to whether he should disturb the other, but Thorin takes the decision out of his hands by wordlessly gesturing for him to come and sit.

“You should be sleeping,” he says quietly, staring off into the distance.

“So should you,” Bilbo returns, dearly hoping that Thorin would not inquire after the reason for his being up. “You’re injured. I might be no healer but even I know that you need your rest.”

Thorin snorts a little indignantly, though he keeps the sound hushed. “Tis but a few scratches, I shall be fine in no time.”

Truthfully, it had not seemed like ‘a few scratches’ when Thorin had been lying deeply unconscious in the eagle’s claws, but Bilbo holds his tongue. As long as the stubborn dwarf does not seem to be in undue pain, it is not his place to tell a king how to treat himself, even if he might, deep down, wish it was (if he did show pain, however… well, that would be an entirely different story and Thorin would surely end up surprised at the hobbit’s talent of showing absolute tenacity if he so wished).

Shifting around a little to find a more comfortable spot, Bilbo surreptitiously eyes the dwarf next to him. Thorin looks tired, but not unreasonably so – no, what seems far more worrying to the hobbit is the broody air surrounding him and the new lines around his eyes. He looks like he sorely needs a distraction, someone to pull him from the confines of his own mind. Well, Bilbo can at least manage that, he supposes, so he finally breaks the quiet.

“Could you tell me a story?” In the Shire story-telling is one of the most popular ways to pass the time, after all. “A story of your people? You must have your own lore and legends.”

For a moment Thorin looks startled at the request, but then he nods slowly. “Aye, we do indeed. We are an old race, after all.” He falls silent, thinking. “Tell me, have you ever heard the tale of the creation of the dwarves, master hobbit?” l

Bilbo shakes his head, curiosity immediately awoken. He loves hearing new stories and ones concerning other races especially so.

“In the beginning, when Arda was first created, Ilúvatar thought of ways to populate the world they had formed in song and thus the Eldar where born, though yet asleep,” Thorin begins, his dark voice melting with the darkness around them, soothing and strong. “When Aulë, or Mahal as we call him in our tongue, the Valar of crafts and shaper of the world, heard of this, his excitement was great, as well as his impatience. He would not wait for the awakening of the first born, so he created the seven fathers of the dwarves in secret, fashioning them after his own thoughts and, knowing the perils of the world he had helped shape, he made them hardy and warrior-like, stubborn and fast in friendship and enmity alike.” Here he pauses, glancing at Bilbo. “One of these was Durin, my ancestor.”

Bilbo oohs with appropriate awe, for he had not known this (nor had he realized the extent of the royal blood flowing in Thorin’s and thus also Fíli’s and Kíli’s veins) and Thorin continues, satisfied.

 “Ilúvatar however, knew of his doings, for he knows all, and he confronted Aulë, reminding him that he did not hold the power or authority to create living beings, who would thus only live as long as he thought of them. Chastised and greatly saddened, for all he had desired was to see others rejoice in the beauty of Eä, Aulë placed the lives of the dwarves into Ilûvatar’s hands, preparing to smite them to death himself with his hammer if Ilûvatar so ordered. But Ilûvatar had compassion for Aulë and his noble wish, so he gave the dwarves life of their own to escape the fatal blow. Then Aulë was glad and thanked Ilûvatar, who imposed only one thing for his adopted children – they would have to wait to wander the earth for the first born to arrive as Ilûvatar’s design demanded, and only then awake from their slumber under the ground.”

Tale told, Thorin’s voice falls away, leaving Bilbo feeling strangely bereft.

“You should do this more often,” Bilbo finally says into the pensive silence. “You’re quite the story-teller.”

He immediately regrets his words, as Thorin’s face darkens. “My mother used to say that, a long time ago. I never could get enough of her stories when I was but a dwarfling… I haven’t had the taste for it since she died.”

Before Bilbo can come up with anything to say to that bleak statement, the dwarf gives himself an almost physical tug out of the dark place his thoughts have wandered into. “Do you have tales of your creation, master hobbit?”

“Not as such.” Bilbo shrugs. “We hobbits have never been much interested in ancient history, safe for an obsession with family trees, which I honestly have no idea how to explain.”

Thorin frowns. “What are your stories about then?”

After a short moment of hesitation, Bilbo shrugs again. “Just _nice_ stories, I guess. About memorable parties, or two young lovers planting rosebushes that will flower as long as their love endures, things like that.”

“You do not seem like a usual hobbit,” Thorin observes quietly, regarding him with weighted eyes.

“I suppose not,” Bilbo agrees with a small smile. “I’m here, aren’t I? And lucky for you, I would say.”

“Lucky indeed,” Thorin murmurs, his smile slightly twisted. There is obviously something bothering him, but Bilbo has learned not to ask, as Thorin never says anything he does not want to, much less bar his thoughts to the world (or Bilbo, as it is). Except for now it seems, as the dwarf finally bursts out, sounding endlessly frustrated (admittedly a little to Bilbo’s amusement), “But why did you do it?” Realizing that the volume of his voice had risen dramatically, Thorin quickly lowers it again, after a quick glance around the camp site to make sure no one was woken. “Why did you risk your life for me so? I’m still ashamed to say that I did not treat you well before.”

Bilbo takes a while to answer, knowing that a quick, meaningless one is not what the dwarf desires or needs to hear. “You know how Gandalf always seems to demand the trust of all those around him, so much that you find yourself agreeing to all of his schemes and plans simply because he’s _Gandalf_ , even if you personally think they’re completely harebrained?” He pauses, fixing Thorin with a level stare that he hopes will convey his sincerity. “Well, you Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, _you_ demand loyalty much like he demands trust. It is simply impossible to travel with you without being affected. Besides if you think I would simply watch any member of this company being killed by orcs or wargs or other nasty creatures without doing anything, your opinion of me is even worse than I had come to understand.”

Silence.

“And perhaps, you’ve grown on me a little, gruffness and all,” Bilbo adds with a low sigh, unsure as to why he even felt the need to say that. He does not look at Thorin after this small proclamation, half afraid to see the familiar disdain on that proud face again, instead choosing to stare at the clear night sky.

When Thorin does not say anything for a long while, Bilbo eventually does give in and look over, but he can find no disdain in Thorin’s face, just thoughtfulness and perhaps a little surprise. He relaxes a little, though the urge to break the silence is still strong enough for him to blurt out, “I like watching the stars.”

It is entirely inane, and as soon as the words have left his mouth he wishes he could take them back. This is not helping his attempts to be taken seriously by anyone, much less a dwarf whose romanticism could probably be measured with a tea spoon.

“They’re distantly beautiful, twinkling in the sky like that,” he adds at Thorin’s questioning look (though the dwarf might well be questioning Bilbo’s sanity, not his motivation), flushing slightly in embarrassment, but also unable to stop himself from talking. “I always used to think that they were watching over me. It’s calming.”

Thorin mumbles something that sounds vaguely like ‘sentimental fool’, but Bilbo’s heart only pays attention to the small smile curling the corners of his lips, barely visible in the pale moonlight.

They sit companionably, side by side, heads tilted upwards towards the sky.

Bilbo does not remember falling asleep, head cushioned lightly on the dwarf’s shoulder and he does not remember being carried back to his sleeping place by said dwarf, who then settles down close by. He _does_ , however, notice the next morning that no more nightmares had haunted his sleep that night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I used the book canon that the dwarves stayed in Imladris far longer than in the movie here, for my purposes. I also assumed that the rock the eagles set them down on at the end of the movie is supposed to be the Carrock, even though I'm pretty sure the Anduin was nowhere in sight.
> 
> Also I really hope Bilbo didn't seem OOC in this, especially the Rivendell scene, I just think he's a lot stronger than sometimes portrayed and he wouldn't take all of Thorin's shit just laying down...
> 
> All mistakes are still mine (and I still wish I could find someone to beta this) and feedback is loved and appreciated!


	3. Part II: Thorin (1)

*

Thorin has a lot of time to think during their trip to ‘someone who might be a friend if I don’t miss my guess’s dwelling (Gandalf’s words, of course, and the confusticated wizard naturally refused to elaborate further), a fact he is swiftly coming to regret, mostly because his head is full of a hobbit who should not be in there in the first place. Now usually Thorin is not one for overthinking, especially not when it comes to the matters of emotions, yet, frustratingly, he cannot seem to be able to _stop_ thinking about the infuriating hobbit who keeps turning all of his expectations upside down without even trying to do so.

Bilbo Baggins. A constant source of surprise. Thorin is not fond of surprises _at all_ , but, much to his consternation, this hobbit shaped one had wormed his way past his defences and into his heart, giving the dwarf an entirely new set of problems to deal with.

Before the near-disastrous confrontation with Azog Thorin had managed not to dwell on the hobbit too much by building a barrier of disdain and distancing himself (and he _had_  indeed thought the little creature mostly useless, more is the fool), but now he finds it maddeningly impossible. He cannot forget the bravery in defending someone with one’s own life; cannot un-see the fierce glint of determination in Bilbo’s eyes, the last thing he had glimpsed before blackness had taken him; cannot un-hear the sincere, if a little ill at ease, words about helping to reclaim their home, which had tugged at his heart strings in ways they had not been moved for a long time.

In short, Thorin cannot remove Bilbo Baggins of the Shire from his thoughts and for once he does not know what to do. Well, he knows what he _should_ do. He should ban the entire matter from his mind and not pursue it further. He should leave Bilbo in peace without dragging him into this mess – this quest of dragons and gold and home

(the thought of Bilbo in his home of old sends shivers down his spine, both in longing and something far too close to dread. He loves Erebor fiercely, but he is a dwarf and dwarves are born with a love of stone that equals hobbits’ love of food and nature, And while the surrounding country used to be green and fruitful, the dragon’s coming had laid the land bare and it would be a long time till something would grow there again, if Smaug had not poisoned the land forever. The last thing he wants is to watch Bilbo whither, far from the green hills of his old dwelling, even if Thorin yearns for his company)

– any more than he already is (if by his own choice). He should not even be thinking about the hobbit’s strange beauty, trusting and brave heart and sweet nature – it would only earn them both grief, as dwarves are a secretive people, naturally suspicious of outsiders.

So yes, he knows what he should do and yet his heart still cries out against rational thought. But never let it be said that Thorin Oakenshield lets his heart rule over his mind, however much it may pain him.

The resolution sours his already strained mood further. He glances back over the line of weary and hungry dwarves trudging along behind him and Gandalf, only to find the one his eye is still mostly searching for moving along with his nose stuck in the book that elf had given him, which stings him for more than one reason. Thorin knows he is slowing down their walking speed with the pain his injuries afford his every breath, but knowing it and seeing Bilbo so unbothered that he can read while trotting along, when he is usually one of the ones struggling the most, is something else entirely. Yet, every time he attempts to push his body to a faster gait either Balin or Dwalin throw him warning looks and he has even caught Bofur glancing at him in a downright reprimanding fashion once. Each time it happens he grits his teeth and moves along at the same speed. Stubborn he may be, but a fool he is not (at least not when it does not concern a certain hobbit burglar).

He trudges on.

*

It would be an understatement to say that Thorin is reluctant to let Bilbo out of his sight once having reached the outskirts of Gandalf’s mysterious friend’s dwelling, even it is the wizard who insists on going alone with the hobbit.

Too busy scowling after their retreating backs, he does not react to Balin coming up next to him, until the older dwarf comments, “Bilbo will be fine, Thorin. Gandalf is with him.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about,” Thorin grumbles in reply, though he does not quite mean it. Gandalf has proven almost irritatingly useful so far, if sometimes a little late in his rescues.

Balin is silent for a moment, his face contemplative. In his youth Thorin had feared that face, for a lecture would almost always follow.

“Are you planning on courting him then?” his oldest companion finally asks, unusually blunt for his usually more circumspect self, yet with his usual insight into Thorin (Balin has simply known him for too long, he sometimes thinks).

Thorin does not have to ask who ‘he’ is.

“No,” he snaps shortly, keeping a tight lid on his own doubt and disappointment on the matter.

Balin’s bushy white eyebrows twitch. “And pray tell why not? We’ve all found him to be a more than worthy companion, I dare say.”

“It’s not his worth that’s in question,” Thorin murmurs, barely keeping an instinctive bristle at the mere notion in check.

“What then? It can hardly be yours.”

Thorin shifts, his great fur coat rustling quietly as his gaze skims over the meadow in front of them, searching for any kind of activity to use as an excuse to abandon this conversation. No such luck.

“Regardless of my own worth, which some might hotly debate upon, do you truly think he deserves this? Being kept away from his home, life, and family for the sake of a _dwarf_ who has shown him nothing but disdain for so long?”

Balin possesses the dubious talent of being able to emanate disapproval without actually saying anything – Thorin has been on the receiving end of that trick too often to still be affected by it, but Balin never fails to make his opinion known regardless.

“And what of Bilbo?” Balin continues mercilessly. “Does he get no say in this? For he has come to love you dearly and loyally, no matter your behaviour towards him.”

Thorin almost winces at the undeniable truth of those words.

“I’ve already dragged him into enough danger as it is, Balin,” he admits quietly. “His home in the Shire is the safer place for him, even if we do reclaim Erebor.”

“So you’re doing this to protect him?”

Thorin barks out a bitter laugh. “Nothing so noble, my dear friend. Rather I’m far too selfish. I could not bear to see him dead because of me.”

“Ahh,” Balin hums, a new weight of understanding colouring his tone. “So you will deny yourself – and him – happiness for the fear of something that might happen regardless? Do you truly believe his death would pain you less, were you not officially involved with him?”

His expression must have given him away, for Balin shakes his head with a long sigh. “You’re deluding yourself, laddie. Your heart is already lost to him.”

Before Thorin can muster a reply, a shrill whistle sounds.

“It seems our five minutes are up,” Balin comments brightly, as if the preceding conversation had never happened, and starts walking. “Look sharp laddie, a good night’s rest and a meal wouldn’t go amiss for any of us.”

Thorin is almost not surprised by the huge man waiting for them on the front porch of a fairly impressive house (for wood anyway). Many strange things have happened during their journey and a human, or at least partly human, male with odd manners living alone  in the middle of nowhere, is new, but not as extraordinary as stone giants or giant eagles coming to their rescue. He only gives the man a quick once over, making sure he is not an immediate threat, before his gaze finds Bilbo, looking especially small and vulnerable standing next to their bulky new acquaintance.

His face must convey his urgent question of ‘are you unharmed?’ for Bilbo gives him a nod and a small if a little tremulous smile. It is obvious he is not quite comfortable in his position, but there is nothing Thorin can do about it at the moment, safe for refusing to let the instinctive growl at the sight escape. They are not here to challenge their possible host after all, no matter his aggravating physical closeness to their burglar

For once Thorin is content to let Gandalf do all the talking, for diplomacy would surely desert him and the wizard’s scheme to introduce them all one by one _is_ rather ingenious – so ingenious indeed that it works, and they are all situated surprisingly comfortably in the great wooden hall before dusk.

Sitting a little apart of the main company (his bruised ribs having forced him to sit somewhere more comfortable than the stools Beorn had provided all around the table) Thorin watches the merry gathering of dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit stuff their faces amongst much conversation and laughter. It could almost remind one of a similar party in a surprised hobbit’s warm hole, not so long ago, if not for a few subtle, yet also glaring - to the right eye - differences. There is a gauntness and guardedness about all their faces, where sometimes it had not been there before. It hurts his heart especially to see how Fíli and Kíli, his sister-sons, had been forced to grow up on their journey, knowing that it is his fault that their joyful spark, though not extinguished, is a little dimmed, may indeed never return to its former innocence. They are all paying the price of their quest and they have not even reached the mountain– and Smaug.

Yet it also does his mood well to see the merry-making around the table, often so absent during long days of riding and walking – that is, if it were not for the small spark of jealousy at the ease with which Bilbo laughs and jokes alongside the rest of the dwarves, how at home he looks in their midst. He knows he is being ridiculous, Bilbo has every right to get along well with the other eleven dwarves in their company, _should_ even get along with them and Thorin has no business begrudging anyone their ease of interaction because he has managed to bugger it up spectacularly.

Balin is the only one of his companions Thorin is aware knows for sure, except for Gandalf of course, whose uncanny knowledge of everything unfortunately does not stop at the dwarf king. Dwalin very probably knows too, having known Thorin almost as long as Balin, and, fellow of few words that he is, he would not have mentioned it. And then there are Fíli and Kíli, who have been unusually quiet on any matter regarding him or Bilbo, which is enough to make anyone who has spent their whole lives watching over them and getting them out of the mischief they frequently had managed to get into, suspicious – especially since, even though they sometimes do not seem like the brightest dwarves of the bunch, both of them are far from stupid and quite canny when it comes to social interaction (something Thorin has always been rather bad at).

He keeps watching them far into the night, until Balin, who has apparently been unanimously appointed his unofficial keeper, as usual, takes a seat next to him, the pipe he had borrowed from Beorn stuck firmly between his teeth. For a moment they sit side by side in silent companionship.

The firelight sends glimmers of light flickering over his silver beard, when Balin finally says, a hint of admonishment that Thorin had not managed to think of that himself colouring his otherwise placid voice, “You should go sleep.”

Thorin sighs in reply – he has never liked being fussed over much and Balin seems to be doing a fair amount of that lately. “Balin – ”

“No, Thorin, no objections! In this we’re all of one mind.”

Correspondingly, a great uproarious cheer rises from the table, though Thorin rather thinks that has more to do with Nori juggling pots of honey than their conversation.

When he still makes no move to relocate to a room featuring a bed, Balin switches tactics.

“Remember the last time you ignored your injuries to the point of complete exhaustion?”

“How could I not? I doubt Dís is ever going to let me forget.”

He still winces at the memory. Suffice to say that some of his choices while drunk on exhaustion had been a little unwise – fortunately Fíli and Kíli had not been old enough to be aware of the entire embarrassing episode.

Bilbo’s clear, bright laughter wafts through the room, tempting and warming. Thorin has rarely heard the joyful sound before and immediately longs to hear it again, in fact he finds himself wishing to never _stop_ hearing it. Maybe he should listen to Balin when his thoughts are already wandering into such a dangerous direction.

“Point taken,” he rumbles, if still a little reluctant with leftover stubbornness.

His choice proves to be correct when the act of standing up turns out to be more difficult than it should by rights have been.

Thorin falls asleep to the dimmed sounds of contentment reverberating through the wall.

*

The whole company takes the chance to sleep in the next morning and still Thorin is, much to his chagrin, apparently the last one to rise. The great hall lies deserted, though there is an assortment of breakfast foods still on the table, obviously waiting for him. In the eerie silence sounds of joy and merriment seem to echo in his head – sounds of Bilbo’s laughter most of all. Thorin quietly groans into his breakfast. Confounding hobbit. Never in his long life has he felt a pull such as this and it almost shames him that he has so little resistance to it.

He stands so suddenly his stool tips backwards with a loud clang. His half-eaten meal lies forgotten as he goes in search of Bilbo. Perhaps some answers would soothe his mind, or even resolve this whole issue, if Hobbit culture proves to be much different from his own dwarven one.

Thorin finds Bilbo sitting on a bench in the sunlight, short legs swinging to and fro a few inches above the ground lazily as he puffs on a pipe that looks suspiciously like Bofur’s. Bilbo’s eyes are closed and Thorin finds himself simply watching him for a few content moments, until the rather idyllic picture is disturbed by two laughing figures streaking by. There is no need for him to hear Kíli’s higher giggles and Fíli’s more settled gusts of laughter to know who has just passed them. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he calls out of sheer habit, “Behave nephews! We’re guests here.”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Thorin!” Kíli’s cheerful voice wafts back. Not exactly reassuring, but it brings a smile on his face nonetheless. If there is one thing that always lifts up his mood it is his sister-sons being merry.

Even if they are now kissing rather noisily behind a row of bushes.

His gaze returns to Bilbo, whose eyes must have opened at the commotion and who is looking a little bit red in the face as he studiously avoids looking in the direction of the offending bush row.

Striding nearer and settling himself down next to the hobbit, Thorin raises an amused eyebrow. “You must have noticed how close Fíli and Kíli are, Master Baggins.”

“Well, yes, of course, but I didn’t want to assume…” Bilbo stammers, the tips of his ears reddening. He coughs lightly. “It’s not unheard of in the Shire, after all we’re pretty much all related anyway, but I didn’t know about dwarves doing anything similar.”

“So two males lying with each other is normal among hobbits?” Thorin asks curiously, glad that he would apparently not need to prod Bilbo as much as he had feared to find out what he wishes to know.

Bilbo shrugs, seeming a little more at ease with the conversation than before. “It’s certainly nothing new to me. I did have a slightly more adventurous youth than you might imagine, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin inclines his head in acknowledgment at the slight barb – he deserves nothing less.

The hobbit’s next words, however, catch him a little of guard in their frankness. “What about you then? Do you have a female dwarf waiting for you to return somewhere?”

Thorin almost chokes at the notion. Of course Bilbo would not know, but he cannot keep his amusement out of his voice regardless when he says, “No, nothing like that for me. My tastes have always run in a different direction.” At Bilbo’s frown he adds, “It’s an accepted way to live in our culture. Females have always been rare, too rare for every male dwarf to find a partner. So we adapted.”

Bilbo is still frowning. “But that means, if Fíli and Kíli are… like that, that means that the line of Durin will end with you.”

“All things have to end, Master Baggins,” Thorin says after a short pause, gentling his voice. “Our line has endured long, very long. But there will be no marriage of convenience simply to keep alive what has naturally reached its end– that would not be accepted in our culture, even if I personally chose to do so. Dwarves love once in their lives, once and with a passion unequalled, unbroken even in death. No dwarf, male or female would willingly enter a union with one they do not love.”

Looking thoughtful, Bilbo puffs on his pipe a little in contemplation. Finally he quietly says, “I quite like that. The thought of one person…” His voice tapers off into nothingness. “You dwarves continually amaze me, Thorin.”

Before he can reply to that, loud shouts of ‘Thorin’ and all kinds of variations of Bilbo’s name, including the newest addition ‘bunny’, which makes Bilbo grimace in distaste, can be heard from the house.

Having got what he came for, yet loathe to disturb their quiet moment, Thorin stands up with a sigh.

“Come, lunch is waiting for us.”

Bilbo smiles at him, a gesture so bright Thorin can only return it. “You mean lunch is _served_. I doubt it will wait for us if we don’t arrive soon, considering how many dwarves are already at the table.”

In unison, their steps quicken.

*

They are preparing for departure when Beorn suddenly pulls Thorin aside.

“In the animal kingdom, most species’ males vie for the attention of potential mates. If one chooses not to, it’s all but guaranteed he will not find a mate, for there are many others who will do so instead.”

Thorin almost chokes on his surprised cough. Beorn pats him on the back with what Thorin considers to be little too much force for a friendly pat.

“I can smell it on you,” Beorn answers his unvoiced question serenely.

Silence. Thorin coughs again, fiercely thankful for his disposition to never blush under any circumstances. “I shall keep that in mind, Master Beorn.”

Beorn only nods at him amicably and moves away whilst Thorin valiantly tries to refocus his attention on the waiting company of dwarves gathered in front of him (if he also hastens their departure along just a little bit, no one will ever know).

None of the dwarves look too happy to be on the road again (well, Dwalin and Bifur look the same as ever, but the point still stands, since it is not remotely unusual for them to have a grumpy air about them), but the grumbling is kept to a minimum – possibly partly because Thorin has been snappy all morning, courtesy of Beorn and Balin respectively, and too many matters weighing on his mind in general, and partly because at least they are not on foot anymore. Beorn has been truly generous in loaning them ponies.

Strangely, Bilbo seems to be the only one with something approaching a good mood, humming along to the steps of his dark-spotted mount. To say that Thorin is not curious as to the reason for this unusual behaviour for a first day on the road again would be an outright lie, but he would still rather not ask and embarrass himself all the same.

The journey to the edge of Mirkwood proceeds uneventfully, the landscape as tame as the weather.

Arriving at the looming woods, however, is a much different matter, as they now have to take leave of the ponies _and_ Gandalf, whose threat of leaving them with only a few obscure warnings about the road ahead no one had really taken seriously afore.

Thorin is busy relieving his own pony of its load, mostly consisting of food supplies as their previous baggage has been lost under the mountains (and he is nearly grateful for that too, as they now have to carry what they have on their backs and if there is one thing dwarves will not complain about carrying – safe for assorted weapons of course – it is food), when he notices Bilbo talking to Gandalf at the edge of the group, the hobbit’s animated and increasingly desperate gestures immediately arousing Thorin’s curiosity. He notes that Gandalf’s expression does not change from its usual calm and vaguely amused state. Unable to help himself this time, Thorin is just starting to make his way over to the two, when Gandalf extricates himself from the conversation, heading over to his horse, presumably in preparation for departure.

Some steps away, Thorin catches a few of the words Bilbo mumbles to himself in a rather irate fashion.

“ – find my own way, hah! It’s not as if he’s the one – ”

With a start the hobbit notices Thorin encroaching on his space and immediately stops talking, a somewhat embarrassed blush staining his cheeks.

“Is everything well, Master Hobbit?” Thorin asks politely, well aware that Bilbo does not seem quite comfortable with him possibly having overheard some of his ramblings.

“Fine, everything is fine!” Bilbo replies, voice noticeable higher than usual. “Just Gandalf being his usual unhelpful self.”

Thorin raises a brow. “Did you entreat the wizard to stay with us then?”

“No, I just,” Bilbo’s eyes stay trained to the ground in front of him as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, “… asked him for some personal advice, is all.”

It would be clear to the most unobservant of dwarfs that the hobbit would rather not talk about the topic further, so Thorin swallows his curiosity and just says, “You should start unpacking your pony. We will enter the forest soon.”

Next to him Bilbo shivers, gaze trained on the dark, looming wall of forbidding trees in front of them.

“Well at least dwarves are used to the dark,” he comments, voice falsely bright.

Thorin snorts. “The darkness of stone, yes, but a forest? I rather do not think so.”

Bilbo glares at him. “I was _trying_ to find something positive about this whole affair, Master Oakenshield.”

“My apologies.” Thorin gives him a mock bow. “I will endeavour not to worry you further.”

His gaze follows the hobbit - who stomps of with a frankly endearing miniature scowl on his face - with a small smile, which only widens when he hears the other mutter “Dwarves. No help at all the lot of them” in such a frustrated voice one might think someone stole his dinner.

Giving the forest a last dubious look, Thorin goes back to readying his own pack.

*

After near two weeks of toiling through the constant gloom of the forest, even the most steadfast dwarf can despair a little. Thorin himself has never been fond of dense woods, especially since the fall of Erebor and Thranduil’s betrayal, so he trudges along silently most of the time, concentrating on trying to leave this cursed place as soon as possible. Only Bofur seems to remain in somewhat merry spirits, as he finds many usable pieces of wood during the days to whittle at night – even if all he does is leave them at the wayside once the figurines are done, since he cannot burden himself with any baggage devoid of practical value. Thorin notices Bilbo seeking out the cheerful dwarf’s company more and more with increasing grumpiness, though understandable the act is. It is obvious the hobbit is a creature of harmony, and Thorin knows that he is not good company most of the time – a fact born by loss and loneliness and heartbreak, but a fact nonetheless. Having no one but himself to blame in this does not improve his mood.

When they make camp that night (if one can call it night – the light looks nearly the same as it does during the day), a modest fire crackling subdued in the middle of the path they had dutifully not left in compliance with Gandalf’s parting words, and eat their meagre rations of the day, it is no different.

Thorin averts his gaze from the cosy picture Bilbo and Bofur are making, the former avidly watching the pony taking shape in the toymaker’s skilled hands, and pretends not to hear Bilbo’s soft exclamation of “Oh, it looks just like Myrtle!” and Bofur’s answering “Aye, that it does”.

Thorin’s focus is on the sword in his lap – he does not _need_ to check the edges every night, as swords of elven make never lose their sharpness, but the ritual calms him nonetheless.

The gently curved hilt comes to rest in his hands mere seconds after lout shouts disturb the otherwise quiet night. One glance reveals a panicked Bilbo bending over Bofur, who is writhing on the ground in obvious pain, the carved pony lying discarded and forgotten on the ground. Dwalin’s axe thuds into the ground before Thorin has done more than find the threat – the now neatly-decapitated poisonous green snake.

Spotting no further hint of danger, he pushes Orcrist back into its sheath, and hurries over to the prone dwarf, firmly pushing Bilbo aside. The writhing having abated, Bofur is lying on the ground, pale and alternating between terrifying stillness and muscle spasms that shake his whole frame. Thorin has seen similar symptoms before, always in dwarves who have been poisoned. His heart sinks – they are not equipped for anything like this and though Óin is a fine healer he too is powerless in the face of an unknown, quick-acting poison.

There is fear in Bofur’s eyes, a terror that has nothing to do with Thorin leaning over him, but rather with a body refusing the mind’s commands as poison spreads through his veins. Behind him, Thorin can practically feel Bombur’s worried hovering and somewhere Bifur is making so much concerned noise that by his standards he might as well be shouting. Thorin pushes the distractions from his mind, his concentration entirely on the dwarf – one of _his_ dwarves – in front of him.

“Bofur,” he says, voice low and urgent, and gently grasps the other dwarf’s face to turn it towards his gaze, “look at me. _Look at me_!”

Though Bofur’s eyes are now directed at him, there is no focus in their brown depths. Running out of other options, Thorin sharpens his voice into a tone of command. “As your king I demand your attention!”

Finally Bofur shows a reaction, his eyes losing some of their glazed quality. “Well, if His Majesty commands it,” he mumbles hoarsely.

Somewhere behind them there is a commotion, Bilbo is saying something – it is the cautious hope and unusual urgency in the halfling’s voice that makes him take note, though his main focus remains on Bofur.

“I need light!” he hears Bilbo say loudly and when there is no immediate effect among the rest of the dwarves, Thorin snaps, “Get him a torch!”

There is no time to question Bilbo, and truthfully the chances of making things worse for Bofur are slim anyway whatever the hobbit’s plan may be.

On the ground Bofur is paling even further, sweat beading on his brow.

“Keep your eyes on me, Bofur,” he instructs calmly, succeeding in keeping the strain he is feeling from showing in his tone. Any panic on his part would only endanger Bofur further. “Keep your eyes on me and keep breathing, slowly. Do _not_ fall asleep.”

Bofur nods weakly, one hand gripping Thorin’s free hand tightly.

Thorin does not know how much time passes with him kneeling over Bofur, murmuring reassuringly and slowly but surely losing all feeling in the hand the other dwarf is clutching as if it is a lifeline (he does not mind, how could he, when it means that there is still life in the other?), before a slight tap on his shoulder brings him back to his surroundings.

A wad of dark green leaves is thrust under his nose. “He needs to eat these,” Bilbo says so quickly his tongue stumbles over the words. “They will work as an anti-venom.”

For a moment Thorin’s surprise wins out and he simply stares at the greenery clutched so tightly in the hobbit’s small hands. They are trembling ever so slightly and before he knows it Thorin has taken the leaves with a curt nod, manoeuvring them between Bofur’s slightly parted lips one by one.

The measure of trust he has in Bilbo should have been shocking, he thinks, before Bofur suddenly takes a big, heaving gasp of air, some colour returning to his skin, as he begins to breathe easier.

Thorin all but slumps back in relief and lets himself be pushed out of the way by Bombur and Bifur, whose wish to check on their brother and reassure themselves of his good fortune is most understandable after all.

There is a dull pain thumping behind his temples which he had not even noticed while focused on Bofur, but might explain why he does not notice Bilbo settling down next to him until a hesitant hand lands on his arm and serious blue-grey eyes meet his gaze as its drawn downward.

“Thank you,” Bilbo says quietly, his lips quirking in a tired but honest smile.

Thorin regards him with no small amount of curiosity. “What for? If anything I should be thanking you.” Realizing how that must sound he quickly adds, “And I am. You saved Bofur’s life; that’s no small matter.”

He lets his own smile come out. “So, thank you, Master Baggins. Again you’ve proven your worth.”

Predictably Bilbo blushes again – or at least Thorin thinks he does, it is a little hard to tell in the gloom surrounding them. It does not escape his notice that when Bilbo speaks again, the topic of his own achievement is deliberately ignored. “I wanted to thank you for… well, for trusting me, I suppose. You didn’t even ask what plant I gave you.”

“That would be because I _do_ trust you,” Thorin immediately answers, his gaze burning into Bilbo’s. “I didn’t at first, as you well know, but now? How could I not? You have long since earned the title dwarf-friend, Bilbo Baggins.”

At that the hobbit’s blush only deepens and he seems unsure as to how to respond, so Thorin decides to rescue him. “I am curious, however. How _did_ you know that those leaves would help?”

All of sudden Bilbo looks like he would rather be somewhere else (or _anywhere_ else), fidgeting and shifting around on the ground. “Well,” he finally mumbles, so quietly Thorin has to resist the urge to bend down a little to understand him better, “I read about it in the book when we were travelling to Beorn’s house and I just remembered when I saw the snake. The chapter on Mirkwood’s plants is very short, not many useful plants at all really and, and I’m rambling aren’t I?”

Thorin does not say anything, at war with himself. Finally he meets Bilbo’s worried gaze, remembering that day in Rivendell when a simple hobbit had stood up to him, even chastised him. Such fascinating fire in such a small being.

“You saved Bofur’s life,” he repeats. “We will speak no further of this.”

Bilbo almost seems to deflate in relief, leaving Thorin unable but to darkly wonder if he is truly such a forbidding and uncompromising person that his companion would believe him capable of being angry at Bilbo for saving a dwarf’s live, with elvish help or not.

When he next looks up, Bilbo has moved away, joining the crowd around the recovering Bofur. Thorin’s gaze catches on the carved pony lying in the dirt of the path next to him and he picks it up, turning the wooden figurine over and over in his hands, deep in thought as his eyes look unblinking into the darkness of Mirkwood forest. Even now, almost two weeks since they have first entered this cursed place, he has not got used to the creeping feeling of it somehow watching back. He fears with a deep sense of foreboding that their road from here on will not be an easier one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with the beta help of the lovely 10daysorless. Thank you so much :)
> 
> Feedback is love!


	4. Part II: Thorin (2)

*

Unfortunately his prediction of trouble ahead rings true. With their food stocks dwindling, all their bellies are starting to gnaw with constant hunger, and the endless gloom of Mirkwood, coupled with the lack of a sign that they might be nearing the forest’s end, would be disastrous to any company’s morale.

So would, in fact, be hallucinations, being attacked by enormous spiders, and getting captured by _woodland elves_. Thorin is not quite sure if he is glad that he is the only one captured – it means less leverage over him, but also a gnawing worry as to how his comrades fare. He does not even know if they are all alive, eaten, or captured by a different troop of elves. Thorin hates nothing more than not knowing.

He suppresses a growl as the two guards all but dragging him along through the elven king’s palace jostle him none too gently when the doors to the throne room open. For a moment Thorin thinks they will push him to his knees, the ultimate degradation, but they only let go of his arms and step back, still within reach and ability to restrain him if necessary. Not that he has any illusions of what would happen if he tried to resist, outnumbered and weak as he is.

Thorin looks up into the elven king’s, cold, dispassionate eyes and fierce hatred wells up in him, hatred that has now burned in him for more than one hundred and fifty years unbroken, finally focused on the source. He can still recall in vivid detail the crushing despair of the elven king turning away, averting his face in the hour of their need when Thorin all but begged him for help. The memory alone brings a never-forgotten taste of ash into his mouth.

“Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thranduil’s voice has not changed in the century that has passed, nor have his features been touched by the frost of age and grief that has painted Thorin’s hair with grey streaks and aged his eyes beyond his years. He almost shivers at the unnaturalness of it all.

“It is an honour to finally have you grace our halls.”

Thorin resists the urge to grit his teeth – elves are always the same, their words as pretty as their actions are empty. He can be civil enough with elves the like of Lord Elrond, High Elves with whom the dwarves have had no ill business save by association of their race, but Thranduil’s wrongs are infinitely more personal. Acutely aware of his situation he reins in his ire, though he cannot help but miss Orcrist at his back like a lost limb.

“So much of an honour, indeed, that your warriors have taken me captive,” he replies, as calm and courteous as he can manage, though he does not even try to hide the bite of sarcasm in his words.

Thranduil raises an elegant eyebrow. “You _have_ been trespassing in my kingdom and stirring up trouble in the forest.”

“That was neither my intention nor purpose,” he says honestly, though rankled by the fact that the elf calls getting attacked and nearly eaten by spiders ‘stirring up trouble’ –  he would have gladly passed on that experience, thank you very much. “I am simply trying to peacefully travel to the other side of Mirkwood.”

“What is your purpose then, Thorin Oakenshield? You are far from your kin.” Thranduil almost sounds genuinely curious, were it not for the hint of warning in his voice.

“As it concerns neither you nor _your_ kin, I see no reason to tell you,” Thorin grits out. He would rather die than tell this traitorous elf of their quest only to have him extort shares of dwarven treasure in exchange for freedom.

“It is my concern as soon as you pass through my kingdom, make no mistake,” Thranduil retorts sharply. “And if you are so devoid of common courtesy, I would have you treated as the trespasser you are.”

Thorin says nothing in return. It is clear Thranduil will not let him go without the information he wants and even clearer he would not volunteer news on his friends either. However much it hurts not to know their fate, he will not give in. Not to Thranduil of Mirkwood. Not now, not ever.

“Very well,” Thranduil finally says, when it becomes clear Thorin will not speak, “maybe a stay in the dungeon will loosen your stubborn tongue.”

As the guards tow him away without much resistance on his part, Thorin is at least left with the grim satisfaction that Thranduil might well be underestimating the stubbornness of dwarves in general and Thorin in particular.

*

In the beginning a passing guard asks him once a day if he has repented and is ready to talk to the king now. Every time Thorin’s silence is answer enough. They stop coming after the passing of the sixth day.

He would never admit it, but at first the stay in the elven dungeon even does him good rather than ill. He is fed regularly if blandly, has nothing but time to rest, and the semi-darkness around him is one of stone rather than gloomy trees, cold and clear and much more to a dwarf’s liking.

And he does rest, lying or sitting on the thin pallet in the far corner of his cell, yet he barely sleeps, worry for his companions keeping him awake when his body tells him it is night, and during the day alike. Then the guards stop coming, only passing food and drink through the bars when he _is_ sleeping, forcing him to acknowledge, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that the loneliness of being shut away in a solitary cell without hope of escape wears on him. Mostly his thoughts rest on each member of the company equally, old friend Balin, protector Dwalin, kind Bombur, fierce Bifur, good-humoured Bofur, proper Dori, young Ori, cunning Nori, steadfast Glóin, and healer Óin, but sometimes he lingers on memories of brave and loyal Fíli and Kíli, his dear sister-sons and Bilbo especially is never far from his thoughts when the walls seem to close in around him.

Thus it is perhaps no wonder that when he hears a quiet sound from outside his cell and sits up only to see _Bilbo Baggins_ crouching in front of the bars, he all but gasps in surprise.

“Bilbo!”

The startled exclamation passes his lips before he can think better of it, causing the addressed to look at him with wide eyes.

“You’ve never called me by that name before. Even though I bade you to often enough.”

Thorin sighs, though it is still tinged with wonder at the hobbit’s presence. “There is a time and a place for such things.”

“An elvish dungeon?” Bilbo points out sceptically.

Thorin growls quietly. “This was not it. You startled me.”

It seems clear that Bilbo does not understand the significance of what has just passed, so he adds, “Names are important to dwarves, but not a matter to be discussed now. What of the rest of the company?”

Presumably understanding his urgent need to hear about their fate, Bilbo immediately answers. “They are all here, safe and unharmed for the most part. I’m quite sorry it took me so long to find you, Thorin. Everyone else is kept at a higher level than this and I didn’t find my way down here before.” He frowns a little. “I’m sure it’s quite cruel of them to keep you here alone when everyone else at least occupies adjoining cells.”

Privately, Thorin can only agree, though he would not admit it out loud to one he seeks to impress. Instead he snorts. “Still think of elves as such perfect beings then, little hobbit?”

“I must say these woodland elves are far rougher than their High Elven kin,” Bilbo admits, his frown deepening. “They’ve done nothing to endear themselves to me.”

Thorin cannot help but smile slightly in satisfaction, glad that Bilbo would not challenge him on this point any longer. Though, looking at the hobbit’s uncommonly haggard and tired appearance, he supposes it really is no surprise that he has no love lost for their ‘hosts’.

“And what of Fíli and Kíli?” he inquires after a moment of silence, for those are the two he has worried about most.

“They’re fine as well, Thorin,” Bilbo says, giving him a small, understanding smile. “They don’t like being kept in different cells, poor lads, but they’re coping.”

At that Thorin’s mood darkens. He knows first-hand how hard his sister-sons take separation, having never been far from each other’s side since Kíli’s birth and always freely intimate with each other. Especially in difficult situations they have always found comfort in each other’s touch and it pains him greatly to hear them be denied that option.

Perhaps sensing the king’s troubled thoughts, Bilbo continues talking. “Don’t worry about them too much, though, their will is unbroken, as is the others’. Truth be told, I rather think the lot of them is driving their guards mad with all those shouting and singing contests.”

A chuckle forces its way out of Thorin’s throat. Yes, he can certainly imagine his dwarves causing a ruckus simply to spite their captors. Come to think of it, he would not be surprised if it had been Bofur’s idea – he has always had a bit of a trickster mind.

But his questions had not yet run dry, his curiosity still burning. “How did you end up here then? The last I saw of the company was at those accursed fires. And how are you still free when everyone else is captured?”

Without needing further prompting, Bilbo launches into the tale of how they wound up in the elven fortress. Thorin listens in amazement at the clearly more than courageous manner Bilbo had saved them all from the spiders and sighs at the inevitable end as they are discovered by the troop of elven warriors, too weak with hunger and lingering spider poison to put up much of a fight, if any – he cannot blame then and his heart burns with pride at their steadfast refusal to divulge the information that Thranduil seeks (and also had sought futilely from Thorin).

Yet one of his questions remains unanswered, so he repeats, “And how did you remain hidden, Master Baggins?”

This time Bilbo does not comment on his reversal to the more formal form of address, for he seems rather busy fidgeting around, until finally the story of his ring of invisibility spills past his lips. Again Thorin listens attentively, and though he cannot deny the usefulness of such a thing, he finds a dark shadow encroaching on his thoughts, a buried instinct that whispers of trouble ahead. For he is no young dwarf, and he had watched a ring of power consume his father’s thoughts after the battle at Azanulbizar and strongly feels that no good can come of such dangerous trinkets.

Having to concentrate on their current predicament, however, he pushes those worries aside for the time being. Now that he knows that the rest of his company is here and well, and one of their number is even free, plans need to be made. He quickly instructs the hobbit to relate the message to the others not to tell Thranduil anything and to hold out their resistance. Bilbo’s face darkens as he beholds those words.

“I’m guessing that means that you want me to find a way to get everyone out of here then?” their burglar sighs, not looking comfortable with the notion in the least.

Thorin fixes him with a solemn, sincere look. “I trust you, Bilbo.” It feels right to him, the feeling of Bilbo’s name rolling of his tongue, even though he had not made up his mind about uttering it again beforehand. It seems his mind is overruled, in this instance. “You have yet to let us down.”

“Sometimes I wish you had less faith in me, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo says quietly even as Thorin can see his shoulders squaring in resolve. “I will do my best.”

As Bilbo prepares to leave, Thorin barely manages to stop himself from reaching out, desperate to keep Bilbo close (always) and not be alone in this dark cage again. Perhaps the hobbit had noticed the aborted motion, for he turns one more time and stretches his hand through the bars to squeeze Thorin’s reassuringly and not even he is prideful enough to reject the gesture and refuse the comfort so freely given

“I’ll be back, Thorin,” Bilbo whispers gently and vanishes into thin air.

Thorin falls back against the stone wall behind him, weary and pained in ways that are not physical (for indeed those he could deal with). Now he can only wait.

*

In the following days Bilbo’s visits are the only thing that keeps him from breaking and seriously considering ransoming himself and his companions to Thranduil in exchange for freedom.

So when he hears a quiet noise outside his cell door, his heart beats a little faster in anticipation, and he straightens from his slouched position on the thin pallet – only to freeze at the sight of an _elf_ staring at him through the gaps in the bars. Tall, lithe and with long blond hair and clear blue eyes he immediately reminds Thorin of Thranduil, but from what he has seen of the appearance of elvish kind he cannot be sure of any significance of that fact, since most of the buggers seem to look alike, if not all but identical to a dwarf.

“What do you want?” he snaps, temper even more frayed by the disappointment of it not being Bilbo. “Come to see a dwarf brought low?”

Something flashes in the elf’s eyes. “You must think ill of my kind indeed to believe us capable of such cruelty.” Ignoring the snort Thorin does not even try to stifle, he continues with his gratingly melodic voice, “I’ve come to warn you. You may think you can outwait King Thranduil, but he is proud and he will not let you go until you give in. You could spare yourself a longer stay down here, if you gave in to the inevitable.”

Hah! As if he needs advice from an elf! Thorin barks out a bitter laugh. “And what would you know of such matters? Mayhap I would rather rot in this dungeon than give _Thranduil_ ,” he practically spits out the name, “the satisfaction.”

“I see reports the stubbornness of dwarves are not exaggerated,” the elf returns coolly, though his gaze seems troubled. “I merely wished to ease your self-imposed suffering.”

For the fraction of a second Thorin is even tempted to take the elf’s words at face value and thank him, but then he remembers the duplicity of elves in the past and thinks better of it. From him the silence that he meets the announcement with is already as much of a concession as any elf is likely to get.

Perhaps the elf even reads this in the lack of angry words thrown at him, for he simply inclines his head, ignoring Thorin’s silence, and quietly says, “Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield. May you find what you seek.”

He is gone before Thorin can do more than blink in surprise. He wonders who this elf is, offering a dwarf kept in his dungeon a few kind words without prompting or, apparently, expecting anything in return.

Thorin does not get long to ruminate on the topic, as only a short time later Bilbo comes up to his cell, huffing and puffing and leading the rest of the company behind him. Thorin stares at him, at Orcrist clutched in his small hands and the key dangling from one finger, and at the grinning dwarves peeking around the hobbit’s small form and almost starts laughing in relief and a mix of other almost overwhelmingly intense emotions that he does not care to pick apart and analyse right at this moment.

He gratefully accepts his sorely-missed sword from their master burglar as soon as the door opens.

“You never cease to amaze, master hobbit,” he says delightedly. “However did you manage to get a hold of this?”

Now that he looks for it, he also sees Fíli holding his double-sword sheath, Kíli one of his small daggers, and Óin his iron staff.

Bilbo’s smile has a mischievous edge to it when he replies, “I managed to sneak into the armoury once. I brought all I could carry, so sadly not much, but I knew you would want Orcrist back.”

Thorin smiles at him in return. The future seems to be looking up (until he catches sight of the barrels, that is, then the future is just looking damnably wet and uncomfortable).

*

The less said about the following miserable barrel-ride to the edge of Lake-Town the better. Unfortunately having been bumped around in a bruising fashion and nearly drowned leaves his mood at such a low point that he snaps at poor Bilbo rather harshly. He supposes he deserves the cold shoulder the hobbit shows him for the rest of the trip to Lake-Town, though it does not stop Thorin from keeping a diligent watch on their saviour nonetheless.

During the long hours and days spend in Thranduil’s dungeon with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company, he has had even more time to think about his situation – or perhaps he should say _their situation_.

Bilbo’s visits had been a light in the darkness and one incident especially, when Bilbo had nearly been caught in front of Thorin’s cell, which had set the dwarf’s heart hammering in his chest with worry until it had become clear that the hobbit had evaded notice and Thorin had been able to relax again, had finally opened his eyes to the truth of Balin’s words that day at the edge of Beorn’s lands. It matters not whether his regard for the hobbit is known to Bilbo or not, as Thorin worries about anything happening to him regardless. And with the end of their journey nearing, either victory or death looming, Thorin is forced to realize that, were the latter to happen, it would not matter if he had made his affections known to Bilbo, safe perhaps for a slightly happier demise. Were the former to happen, however, and all that he has dreamed of to pass, holding his silence now would surely lead to Bilbo returning to the Shire again, none the wiser, leaving Thorin behind bound by his duties to his kin and, he now suspects, unable to bear the loneliness of being apart with much grace.

So once again his mind is made up – he would see his new plan through, just waiting for the right opportunity to approach the hobbit. The rest would be up to Bilbo.

Speaking of the hobbit, Thorin’s gaze is drawn back to him once more as another violent sneeze wracks the smaller being’s frame. A deep frown marring his forehead, Thorin finally completely ignores the ‘stay away’ vibes Bilbo is doing his best to send out, and marches up to the hobbit determinedly.

There is not much left of the former majesty of his cloak, ratty and worn by the stresses and strains of their journey, but it still offers some warmth and protection. Besides Thorin cannot deny liking the look of his garment around Bilbo’s shoulders, pooling around his short legs, and he cherishes the look of surprised gratitude on the hobbit’s face at the gesture.

Bilbo even mumbles a quiet ‘thank you’, even though he still sounds grumpy from the incident before (Thorin counts it as a win, anyway).

*

The house the Master of Lake-Town so graciously offers them for occupation is nice enough, especially considering their recent misfortunes, and for the first few days they rarely show themselves outside, content to rest and eat in private. Thorin is the exception, already making plans and spending his time in meetings to secure transportation and provisions for the last leg of their journey. For all that the Master of Lake-Town shows himself almost annoyingly happy at their arrival, Thorin is relieved every time he leaves the man’s presence – he has never liked leaders whose only concerns are politics and their own gain and the Master seems to care for nothing else. For now the masses are behind them, and consequently so is the Master, but Thorin is well aware that that might change in the blink of an eye, so he would rather not extend their stay for too long.

The rest of his time Thorin spends mostly at Bilbo’s bedside. The cold that had made itself known after their barrel escape had rapidly gained momentum, and the hobbit had been rather miserable for days already, wrecked with fever and coughs and plagued by lots of mucus. The other dwarves have pointedly foregone commenting on the long hours Thorin spends at Bilbo’s bedside, keeping their peace, safe for a few grins and knowing smiles (and a particularly self-satisfied look on Balin’s face, not that he does not deserve it – Thorin should probably thank him at some point).

When Dwalin and Óin come to Bilbo’s room to inform Thorin that they are all going out to a pub for some well-deserved revelry, he just waves them on with a nod, lost in thought as he gazes at the hobbit’s sleeping countenance.

The house grows quiet around the two remaining inhabitants and Thorin suddenly finds himself gripped by the wish to hear Bilbo’s mellow voice fill the silence. But the hobbit remains lying still under the covers, so still that Thorin cannot help the irrational, instinctive part of his brain worrying as it had done for the past two days now, even though he knows that it is just a severe cold and a non-life threatening fever that plague Bilbo.

Studying Bilbo’s creamy skin, the slight flush on his cheeks, the way his Adams apple bobs up and down ever so gently in tandem with his breaths, and the little dimples that form around his mouth whenever his face moves slightly in his sleep, Thorin has to swallow hard. The want had been there before, but now there is an added melancholy. A long time ago he would have been able to give Bilbo everything he might desire, or Thorin desired to gift him with. He would have been able to offer him a home, a place to call his own. But who is he now that he would dare to court such an extraordinary being, deserving of so much more than Thorin can give him? Even if they succeed in killing Smaug, Erebor still lies in ruins, the halls empty of the sounds of the many voices that once filled it, devoid of life.

Much later, when the rest of his company returns in high spirits and at least in parts more than slightly drunk, Dwalin finds Thorin sitting in the dark, still in the same spot without any indication of having moved at all. The gruff dwarf only lays a hand on Thorin’s shoulder for a while, in a silent gesture of understanding and support, before leaving him be. He knows his liege well enough to grasp his need for solitude.

Only a few minutes later, he is disturbed again, this time by two merry (and infinitely more tactless,) dwarves bursting into the room.

“Look at what we found, Uncle!” Kíli cries, grinning madly as he wriggles a large harp in his arms.

“Shh!” he chastises, motioning to Bilbo. “You’ll wake him.”

“Sorry,” they immediately chorus, voices immediately lowered. Fíli gestures Kíli to hand him their treasure, his voice uncommonly soft as he explains, “We know how much you used to like playing. Mother still tells of the long evenings you played for her and Frerin.”

Thorin accepts the offered instrument, running his hands over the smooth wood. It is no great harp, nothing compared to the one he used to play on in Erebor, made of gold and silver of the purest quality, but it is true, he has missed the feeling of strings beneath his fingers and music pouring forth as he bends them to his will.

Looking up he gives his sister-sons a rare full smile. “I thank you, Kíli and Fíli, for such a thoughtful gift.”

Their grins widen and they bow in unison. “As always, at your service, Uncle.”

Oh, how they take pleasure in his approval. A dangerous thing, if driven too far, but he remembers being similar once, adoring of his father and grandfather before bitter reality encroached. And how is he supposed to instil in them that he is not a hero to be admired, nor a great dwarf to be put upon a pedestal? They adore him far too much, and he is selfishly glad for their love and loyalty in his lonely life.

“You should go back downstairs,” he says quietly, fingers still running over the harp in his lap.

Kíli frowns, whilst Fíli just gazes at him, eyes bright in burgeoning understanding. “But won’t you play?” the younger asks, sounding disappointed.

“I will play for you tomorrow, Kíli, I promise,” he responds gently. “Tonight there are other matters on my mind.”

Satisfied with the reluctant nod he receives, he trusts Fíli to get the hint and leave, and is not disappointed.

“Good night, Uncle,” they both whisper, and the door falls shut behind them with a gentle thud.

Alone again, Thorin focuses all his attention on the instrument between his fingers, tuning it as best as he is able with the quality he has to work with. When he is finally satisfied, he positions the harp between his legs, memories of other times he has performed this exact movement returning. His fingers begin gliding over the strings without conscious thought as to what he is playing, an old melody springing forth, sad and melancholy, as so many dwarven songs are, yet possessed of an undertone of hope found in the occasional high notes, vibrating in their intensity.

On the bed, Bilbo stirs a little, unconsciously shuffling closer to the music as Thorin begins to hum along to the notes floating through the air.

The content smile appearing on the hobbit’s lips after a while is all that he could have wished for as a reward.

*

Thorin is immediately aware when Bilbo finally stirs to complete wakefulness in the early hours of the next morning, despite having dozed a little in his long vigil, so attuned had he become to the hobbit’s every move.

Bilbo’s eyes, at last free of the daze of fever, blink open to the sight of Thorin leaning over him. He blinks again.

“Thorin?” he asks, voice hoarse and scratchy from prolonged sleep.

“Aye,” Thorin simply returns, his heart warming at the sight of his favourite burglar awake at last.

A puzzled frown makes its way onto Bilbo’s forehead and he shakes his head a little, as if to clear lingering confusion from his mind. “What are you doing here?”

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “Making sure you’re all right.”

“How long have I been here? I don’t remember much after arriving in the city,” Bilbo asks next, that adorable little furrow on his forehead still in place.

“This is the third day of our stay,” Thorin readily answers, aware of how disconcerting loss of time due to sickness can be.

Bilbo’s eyes flicker over his slightly rumpled appearance, his eyes widening. “Have you been here all this time?!”

Thorin has to smile a little at his shock. “Indeed I have, Bilbo, safe for a few errands that could not be avoided.”

“WhyWh _Why_?” The poor hobbit sounds completely bewildered. “And why are you calling me Bilbo again?”

“Because I wished to,” Thorin says, answering both questions at once, focussing all the intensity he can muster in his gaze on Bilbo. “Is it so hard to believe that I care for you?”

“To be entirely fair, you never did explain the issue with names to me,” Bilbo reminds him, red creeping upon his cheeks. He avoids Thorin’s gaze, focussing on plucking at a loose thread on his blanket instead.

Thorin suppresses a sigh, even though the hobbit has a point. He had simply hoped for a slightly more _enthusiastic_ response to his first attempt at making his affection known.

“Names are very important in dwarven culture,” he begins to explain, his voice unconsciously slipping into the cadence of story-telling. “Every dwarf has a public name that everyone may know, though some are reluctant to give even that name to strangers, and a private name in Khuzdul. Those are only ever revealed to family – and to those who might become family.” His memories stray back to the Shire and the few hobbits he had encountered there during his search for Bilbo’s home, all so open and innocent. “It is… strange for a dwarf to see someone, even one of a different race, give his name so freely. For more traditional dwarves it might even be somewhat distressing.”

There is a short pause, whilst Bilbo mulls this new information over, then he asks hesitantly, looking torn between something very much like hope and fear, “So you using my first name, the name that would in comparison be the more private one means… means that you’re _courting_ me?”

At Thorin’s measured nod, the hobbit lets out a long, breath, eyes wide with wonder. “I had not dared to hope…”

Now it is the dwarf’s turn to be surprised. Hope implies… “You knew?”

Bilbo hesitantly meets his questioning gaze. “I had seen you look at me sometimes, in such a way that I wondered, but as I said, I didn’t let myself hope that I might be reading you correctly.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says insistently, his heart beating rapidly in his chest despite his outward composure, “does that mean that you return my feelings? That you accept my courtship?”

For a moment Bilbo stares at him as if he is insane, and his heart begins to sink, another rejection lining up for him to be bitter about later, but then the hobbit exclaims, “Yes, yes of course! I don’t understand _why_ you would choose me, I’m just a simple hobbit, about as normal as they come after all, but that that doesn’t make me any less glad that you have.”

The words hit Thorin harder than Bilbo probably anticipated, for he knows that he is much to blame for the hobbit’s low self-image, having only solidified the notion with his behaviour at the beginning of the journey, his insistence that Bilbo had no place amongst them.

Taking Bilbo’s hand in his own rougher ones (and incidentally rescuing the poor blanket that Bilbo’s nervous movements have slowly been unravelling), he rumbles, voice low and as infused with as much sincerity as possible, “You, Bilbo Baggins, are an extraordinary being, and I will suffer no one saying anything different, not even yourself, do you hear me? You are worth everything I can give you and more.”

The hesitantly blooming smile his words cause warms Thorin to the core.

“Then I am truly blessed that you think so highly of me, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo says, his smile now full. “For the longest time I had thought my feelings to be …inappropriate, if not in vain. I hardly knew what to do with them. And then Gandalf so helpfully told me that I had to find my own way in this as he refuses to meddle in matters of love. Very typical of him.”

Thorin’s first instinct (so that was what they had been talking about! If only he had known) is quickly eclipsed when one word echoes in his mind.

“Love?” he asks, not even ashamed of his voice wavering. This is much more than he had ever expected, especially of a first talk about …all this.

Bilbo’s cheeks flame and he clears his throat, looking anywhere but at the dwarf in front of him. But his hand still rests between Thorin’s. “Well, Gandalf certainly identified it as such, but I wouldn’t presume – ”

Thorin does not let him reach the end of the sentence. His blood aflame, his lips meet Bilbo’s before the other can do anything but blink at the advancing dwarf in shock. For a moment the hobbit lies motionless, his lips pliant and unresponsive beneath Thorin’s, but then he surges upward, meeting the dwarf’s kiss with equal fervour and all thought flees Thorin’s mind.

When the finally draw apart for breath, Thorin cannot help but look deep into Bilbo’s eyes, drink in the sight of their happy sparkling, and mumble, “You, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, are full of surprises.”

Still breathing a little heavily, Bilbo grins at him. “Says the dwarf king who wants to court a hobbit.”

Their laughter, dark and low, high and bright, mingles in the air around them. And for a time the trouble and toils ahead recede into the distance, all but forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they've finally made it... Hope you liked the chapter! Comments are more than welcome :)


	5. Part III: Erebor (1)

*

Ever since they had left Lake-Town, it seems to Bilbo that time does not pass quite like normal, that it refuses to behave like the constant it is supposed to represent. One minute they are moving towards the mountain, the next they are cowering in a little ditch on its flanks, and the one after that he is stumbling up a staircase, clothes smoking, hair singed, and a golden cup clutched in his hands. Then there is another huge chunk of time that simply falls away and the hobbit finds himself openly standing inside the might of Erebor next to thirteen dwarves, torn between appropriate awe and feeling quite lost.

Something of his feelings must have shown in his bearing for, without comment or needed prodding, Thorin appears next to him, having abandoned the other dwarves who are exuberantly looting through heaps of gold and jewels.

Bilbo gratefully leans into the warm, safe presence of Thorin at his side. The other smiles down at him before casting his gaze about the cavernous hall, giving Bilbo the opportunity to surreptitiously study the dwarf he had come to love. Thorin’s features are alight with a pride so ancient as to rival the city around them itself, but also with a measure of contentment and belonging Bilbo had never witnessed from him before. He stands tall, every inch the rightful king in his rightful home.

So lost had he become in his musings that Bilbo only notices that Thorin’s attention has returned to him, when the other says, faint amusement lacing his words, “Am I so fascinating that you should have no interest in,” his sweeping arm indicates the hall with its countless treasures, “all this?”

“You’re more interesting to me than all the gold and jewels in Erebor, Thorin,” Bilbo returns startlingly honest, though his ears still pink slightly at voicing such an open admission. He is not yet used to speaking his mind when it comes to his feelings.

For a second he thinks he sees a shadow pass through Thorin’s eyes, perhaps of grief, but then the dwarf is smiling again and most thoughts flee Bilbo’s mind. Thorin’s smiles tend to do that, rare as they are. In fact, he does not think he has seen the usually rather broody dwarf smile as much as he has in the last hour ever before, just another physical reminder how important this whole quest truly is to him.

Thorin touched his arm. “Come. I wish to show you something.”

Bilbo follows without protest, curious. As they walk, Thorin’s warm hand on his arm guiding him through hallways and piles of debris as well as treasure, the dwarf explains, “Smaug’s destruction only reached the main halls and the great gates.” At the very mention of the great drake and bane of Erebor, his eyes turn cold and sharp as ice. “Most of Erebor was built to a scale the miserable wyrm could not fit through, thus the upper halls and living quarters are untouched by his scum. Any damage there has been wrought by neglect and natural decay.”

Bilbo nods along. “Good thing most everything is made of stone then.”

“A good thing indeed,” Thorin agrees and Bilbo is glad to hear amusement back in his voice.

They stop in front of two great double-doors, decorated with a glittering relief of seven stars and a crown hovering over a hammer and an anvil – the emblem of the line of Durin. The right wing of the door opens smoothly and soundlessly under Thorin’s hand and he gestures Bilbo to go on through.

The room that opens itself to his eyes is not what he expected. Instead of more vastness and treasure, he sees an almost subdued, utilitarian chamber. Yes, there are probably priceless frescos on the walls, a big draped bed in the middle of the room, and expensive looking items strewn around, but there is hardly any of the ostentatiousness and opulence that characterizes the great halls. A thin layer of dust coats every surface, the only sign that no one has lived in these quarters for a long time, for all that they look like they had been abandoned in all haste, a snapshot of a life before tragedy, without thought to possessions or cleanliness. Bilbo’s gaze catches on a great silver harp adorning one corner, his mind immediately going back to that night in Lake-Town when Thorin had played and sung for him. The memory still brings a rush of happiness and contentment with it.

He turns around to Thorin, who is watching him still, with that slight hint of amusement, now joined by a strange tenderness deepening the crinkles around his eyes.

“Is this your room?”

Thorin inclines his head in affirmation. “You sound surprised.”

“Well,” Bilbo begins a little hesitantly, hoping he would not cause offense as his gaze travels over the room with renewed interest (it suddenly strikes him that _this_ , this right here is the closest to Thorin’s past he has ever been), “I would have thought your quarters to be… more extraordinary, if you get my meaning. Not that they aren’t lovely,” he adds hastily, though the look on Thorin’s face had not changed, “they really are, but they’re more subdued than I would’ve expected from a crown prince’s quarters.”

For a time Thorin remains silent, some unpleasant memory darkening his brow. “You’re not the first to say so,” he finally sighs. His eyes find Bilbo’s, almost painfully sober. “Say, my dear hobbit, have you ever heard of gold fever?”

Bilbo shakes his head, a sinking feeling in his stomach. The name, after all, is indicative enough, and anything that can make Thorin’s eyes go so dark with pain can only be a bad thing.

When the dwarf resumes talking, his face is as distant as they are physically close. “The line of Durin was cursed, long ago. That we should lose our minds to the call of treasure, like a fever taking over every waking thought. An obsession.” He swallows hard. “Not all of us have succumbed to it, but the weakness, the susceptibility is there, always lurking. Before the fall of Erebor, Thrór fell under the gold’s spell.”

Thorin’s impossibly blue eyes drill into Bilbo’s gaze, equally possessed of fear and guilt and grief, as he chokes on his next words. “I watched my grandfather fall apart, until he cared only for amassing more and more treasure – barely a thought left for his kingdom, or his family.”

The last words are only a whisper and the proud dwarf turns away, seeking to hide his distress from Bilbo. The hobbit would have none of it. Outright gestures of affection have been sparse since Lake-Town and it is usually Thorin who initiates them, but right now, looking at his distraught partner, at whose sight his own heart twinges painfully, Bilbo does not think twice to draw his beloved closer, putting all the comfort he can intpo the two short arms not even reaching around Thorin’s middle in a half-hug.

A small tremor runs through the dwarf’s larger frame and then he leans into the embrace, seeking the comfort Bilbo so willingly offers.

“I’m afraid,” he whispers into Bilbo’s shoulder, who can only imagine what it must have cost the proud king to admit to that. “I know of the darkness that lurks within me, and yet I fear that alone will not be enough to prevent its rise.”

“We have a saying in the Shire,” Bilbo says quietly, his hands unconsciously rubbing soothing circles on Thorin’s sides (whether he feels it under all that cloth and armour or not), “’Only a fool does not fear that which is fearsome’.”

“I’ve been a fool often enough in my life,” Thorin replies harshly. He draws back a little, his tone softening into something more sad than angry. “I had not wished to ask this of you, to place this burden on your shoulders, Bilbo, but now I feel that I must. Will you look out for signs of madness in me? Will you be my shield against the threat of a twisted mind?”

Bilbo simply smiles up at him softly, more than glad that Thorin trusts him enough to ask this of him, burden or not. “Of course. Anything, Thorin.”

He feels the dwarf relax, some of the tension in his frame lifting as his lips twitch into a small smile. “Thank you.” Their foreheads touch in dwarven tradition. “Now let us talk of less grievous things.”

Bilbo agrees wholeheartedly – wishing to forget all the dire things in the world, now that is something he can get behind.

Grasping at the first thought to enter his mind, Bilbo gestures to the corner, and, as Thorin follows his gaze, asks, “How did you come to play the harp so well?”

“Despite our reputations as a rough and unsophisticated people music is quite important to dwarves,” Thorin explains willingly enough. “Most of us can sing and many play instruments. As prince it was expected of me to master one – and I chose the harp.”

“It is a kingly instrument,” Bilbo agrees, but his heart sinks. “Tell me Thorin, did you ever do something just for yourself? Just because _you_ wished to?”

Thorin only sighs a little bit pained, though Bilbo is not quite sure whether it stems from the subject matter or from him taking such an interest in it. “Bilbo, you have to understand, my life has never been mine to do with as I wish. As crown prince I’ve known my duty to my people since I was born. In Erebor I was groomed for kingship. And after Azanulbizar the task of caring for my people as best I could and finding a new home for them fell to me. It didn’t leave much time for anything else.”

At Bilbo’s decidedly unhappy look, he adds gently, “Don’t mistake me, there have been happy times as well, times with family.” His eyes soften in that particular way they often do when thinking of his dear sister-sons, and probably his sister Dís “And I’ve long ago come to terms with my place in this world. Don’t mourn for which I do not.”

Truthfully, while this does mollify Bilbo a little, he is far from content at Thorin’s easy acceptance. He might have done some very unhobbity things recently (falling in love with a dwarven king would certainly make the top of that particular list), but the morals of the Shire are still very much instilled in him – and always will be – and thus also the belief that absolutely _everyone_ deserves a happy childhood – or a childhood at all for that matter, since it does not sound like Thorin had enjoyed much of one.

Aware of Bilbo’s persisting disquiet, Thorin gently pushes him to sit in the only chair by the cold fireplace, going to fetch the harp himself. Before Bilbo can protest that he has no intention of being placated like a child after a tantrum, Thorin begins playing, not even bothering to tune the instrument, trusting in its quality, and Bilbo swallows any and all words that had wanted to come out just a second before.

Thorin had been right, the harp he had played in Lake-Town could not compare to this one’s beauty, could never produce such clarity and sweetness of sound. Watching Thorin play, his thick fingers flying over the strings with surprising nimbleness, his eyes half-closed, Bilbo simply lets the music wash over him and, for a short while, he can forget his worries about what is to come.

*

Bilbo finds Thorin on one of the balconies surveying the great hall, watching half of his company sort and search through piles of treasure with troubled eyes. The other half had gone to hastily erect a barrier between the destroyed front gates (though it must be said that a hastily-built dwarven wall still surpasses any man’s work in strength and quality). Understandably their paranoia had not lessened upon finding Smaug absent from the mountain, much to Bilbo’s relief, who still feels like a dark cloud is hanging over them all. He knows that the dwarves had raided a nearby armoury – led by a very enthusiastic Dwalin – yet Thorin had not joined in, choosing instead to brood up here, prompting Bilbo to go in search of him.

The dwarf king turns around from where he had been leaning on the railing before the hobbit can announce his presence.

“Bilbo.” He smiles briefly, a quick quirk of the lips that does not reach his eyes. “Is something the matter?”

He longs to say ‘yes, you are’, but figures that might not go over too well, so he settles for, “I wish you would tell me what troubles you so.”

It speaks volumes to their changed relationship that he feels comfortable saying even that much.

Thorin turns around again, gaze fixed on something below, but he does not protest when Bilbo steps up next to him, unable and unwilling to ignore the urge to lean into Thorin’s warmth.

“They haven’t found it yet,” Thorin finally rumbles, his eyes distant. Bilbo does not need to ask to know that he is talking about the arkenstone, the treasure of his forefathers.

“I’m sure it’ll turn up eventually,” he says, perhaps a little too flippantly, for even though he has tried, he simply cannot understand the importance Thorin seems to place on this simple jewel.

“Eventually isn’t good enough!” Thorin growls heatedly, hands clenching on the railing.

Well, in for a biscuit, in for a cookie jar.

“Why is the arkenstone so important to you, Thorin?”

“You won’t understands,” Thorin answers broodingly, though surprisingly calmly, “and I do not say this as an insult. From all you’ve told me about hobbits your folk simply don’t care about treasure and symbols of power.”

“Tis true, we do not, but will you not try to explain nevertheless? I _wish_ to understand you.”

Thorin’s dark gaze bores into Bilbo’s own. “Very well. When Thrór found the arkenstone, he took it as a symbol of his right to rule. He displayed the jewel for all to see, to the envy of the rulers of all realms. The might of the dwarves of Erebor embodied in a single jewel. It would be accepting defeat, settling for less than deserved, to rule without it.” His eyes glint in remembrance, a look of almost longing on his face. “Oh, the beauty of the arkenstone, Bilbo. Such a thing has not been seen in Middle-Earth for many a year. It’s indescribable to anyone who hasn’t seen it with their own eyes.”

Bilbo can only listen, mesmerized by the fire in Thorin’s eyes, a passion in his words he has only heard from the dwarf when talking about Erebor before. And perhaps, he thinks, with sudden insight, that is the point, the idea of home, of reclaiming his home having melded with the need to find and possess the arkenstone once more.

But Thorin is not done yet, his eyes dark once more. “And remember this, Bilbo. Whether you talk of elves, or men, or dwarves, you’ll always find greed in their hearts.” His lips quirk almost unnoticeably. “Maybe it is different with you hobbits, but all other races can fall under its spell.”

Bilbo thinks of the ring safely tucked away in his jacket pocket still a little guiltily and has to admit to himself that Thorin may have a point.

“Many a person will try to enrich themselves at your loss, if you have treasures, and even if you have none. Other people’s rights, indeed honest behaviour, matters little when there is a profit to be made, either with false words or deeds of violence. I know this better than most.”

“Surely it’s not that bad?” Bilbo cannot help but ask, a little shocked by the dark vehemence underlying Thorin’s words.

Thorin only snorts. “Have you not paid any attention to the history of these lands and what was once called Beleriand? All sorrow and suffering was caused by beauty everyone wished to covet, be it jewels or ladyloves.”

Bilbo is torn between protesting that he does know his history, thank you very much, and wisely keeping his mouth shut, since, admittedly, even though he knows the tale of the Silmaril for example, he has never thought about it this way, has never considered their influence on the world as it is now and what the story might reveal about it. Thorin on the other hand obviously has, so Bilbo stays silent, for all that he wishes to wipe the brooding look from the dwarf’s face.

He hates how often he finds himself at a loss trying to help Thorin, who has to bear burdens and face troubles the hobbit could scarcely have imagined a mere few months ago.

This time events would not even allow him to try, as Balin comes all but careening around the balcony corner behind them before he can open his mouth to say something.

Bilbo stares. The usually so unflappable and dignified dwarf is breathing hard, twin spots of colour high on his cheeks (and Bilbo has seen him fight with trolls without even pinking from the exertion).

“Thorin!” he cries. “The ravens have brought news. Smaug is dead!”

“Smaug is dead?” Thorin echoes blankly, staring at Balin with a similarly shocked expression as Bilbo imagines adorns his own face at the moment.

“ _Smaug is dead_.” This time the dwarf king’s voice is nothing more than a whisper, full of disbelief, of hope, of wonder, and even of mounting joy. For a moment it seems as if only the sturdy, immovable rock at his back keeps Thorin standing upright.

Bilbo can only guess what it must be like to have hated a creature for so long and planned its demise, and then to hear that it is _gone_.

Even Thorin, as block-headedly proud and unfailingly stubborn as he is, has to take a little time to compose himself after such news.

“Are you sure?” he finally asks Balin seriously, who looks like the sight of his friend tentatively lightening as the burden on his shoulders eases is more dear to him than anything else in the world. “What happened?”

“According to Roac the dragon attacked Lake-Town,” Balin reports immediately, “and was slain but an hour ago by the swift arrow of Bard of Dale. Smaug’s carcass now lies in the lake.”

Thorin sags, finally fully accepting the truth, yet only a moment later he rights himself to stand tall, once more the king, ready to leas his people.

“Come friends, we have work to do.”

*

Bilbo shivers miserably at the cold as he shimmies down the rope from their impromptu battlements as quietly as possibly. Only a few hours ago he had felt nothing but joy, standing next to Thorin as he delivered a rousing speech to the company, finally fully free of the dragon’s menace, but things had gone downhill after that as quickly as they had gone uphill in the first place.

The mere memory of Thorin’s fury at Thranduil’s demand of a share of the treasure makes him quail a little in remembrance. The dwarf king had been pleasant enough in his dealings with Bard, clearly unhappy with negotiating about giving away parts of their treasure, but willing to do so in honour of Bard’s mighty deed and the long-standing friendship and alliance between the dwarves of Erebor and the men of Dale. As soon as Thranduil had ridden up and demanded the same treatment, however, Thorin had snapped – to the surprise of no one – and even Bilbo had silently agreed with him that the elven king, who had done nothing for the dwarves, then and now, had no right to the price he asked for. If only Bard had not insisted on siding with him! Then at least Bilbo would not be sneaking out of his own camp, bitterly feeling like he is betraying all his friends by his actions, even well-meant as they are, and fearing the consequences, in the vain hope that he could somehow keep the peace between the embittered former allies.

Bilbo has to admit to some surprise at his speedy admission into Bard’s tent, though he has to hide an actual physical start at finding Thranduil already there, eyeing him coolly.

“Who might you be then?” Bard asks rather pleasantly, considering the circumstances, standing up from where he had been sitting on a folding chair. In fact, he mostly looks curious.

Bilbo takes a deep breath. “My name is Bilbo Baggins. I’m one of the thirteen who came with Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bard frowns a little, scratching at the stubble growing on his chin in deep thought. “Oh yes! I think I remember seeing you in Lake-Town a few days ago.”

Thranduil on the other hand looks like he has just bitten into a sour grape (Bilbo finds himself spontaneously wishing that Thorin could see him right now – he would surely enjoy seeing that expression on the haughty elf’s face), probably piecing together at least some of the riddle of how exactly the dwarves had managed to escape from his dungeons.

Before the elven king can say anything, however, Bard speaks up once more. “What brings you here then, Bilbo Baggins? I very much doubt Mr Oakenshield is aware of your presence here in the middle of the night.”

“He is not,” Bilbo agrees, ruthlessly pushing back the rising guilt in his throat. He cannot let himself get distracted now that he has come so far. “He wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to offer you. Much as I can understand his reluctance in giving away any of his rightful treasure to those who offered him no aid,” his gaze pointedly rests on Thranduil, refusing to be cowed, or do anything but speak his mind, despite their higher standing, “I can’t simply stand by and do nothing while all you mighty rulers talk yourself into a war against each other.”

His gaze is steady when he looks at a curious Bard, and a reserved Thranduil. “I can give you my share of the treasure – a fourteenth, according to the contract. You can take that and go, leave Erebor in peace and maybe even rebuild old friendships, or at least alliances.”

Bard is now staring at him in obvious astonishment. “Why would you do this, Master Baggins? You derive no personal gain from this, yet risk losing your position in King Thorin’s eyes.”

“There’s been enough blood spilled,” Bilbo says bluntly, repressing a wince at the reminder of Thorin’s ire that is sure to be. “Besides we hobbits have little want or use for treasure, especially that much of it, so it might as well serve some purpose.”

At this even Thranduil inclines his head in grudging respect, when he says , “We will take your offer into consideration.”

Bard nods in agreement. “You should get back before you’re missed.”

Dismissed, Bilbo has no choice but to comply and leave, though he had secretly hoped for a decision on the spot. Politics probably do not allow that, he grumbles to himself. Now he can only hope that Bard and Thranduil will see reason – and that Thorin will not be too angry when he finds out what Bilbo has attempted to do.

He has done his best, anyway.

*

The next morning Bilbo is not confronted with his actions the night before, does not hear Bard and Thranduil’s decision as he had expected – instead terrible battle cries fill the air, and a frantic call to arms. Azog had come.

Making his way toward the front gate a few minutes after the first sound of battle trumpets had reached Erebor, Bilbo feels acutely aware of the weight of the Mithril coat over his shoulders, the slight pressure of the crystal-encrusted belt tightened around his middle with Sting fastened at the side, whilst fear and determination go to war in his blood.

He does not get far before he is intercepted by Thorin, who had obviously been looking for him. The dwarf king looks more battle-ready than Bilbo has ever seen him – and he _always_ looks battle-ready – bristling with weapons, armour, and grim resolve.

“Where’re you going?” Thorin asks, brows raised in that haughty, demanding way only he seems to be able to pull off successfully.

Bilbo looks at him askance. “To the gates, of course. To fight.”

For a moment Thorin simply stares at him, as if he cannot quite comprehend what Bilbo has just said, then his face darkens into a thundercloud, his eyes narrowing. “You’re _not_ going to fight, Bilbo. There’s a war raging outside, that’s no place for a hobbit.”

“If you think I’m going to simply stay here in safety while everyone else is risking their lives, while _you_ risk your life, you’re dead wrong!” Bilbo cries, equally shamed and outraged by Thorin’s words. It is true, hobbits are not made for war, but he is no _coward_ to hide during battle, even if he is scared stiff.

In a flurry of robes and clinking weapons Thorin kneels in front of Bilbo so that their eyes are on the same level, his gaze startlingly intent. “Do not think I don’t value and respect your courage, dear Bilbo,” he says seriously, then continues mercilessly, “but you are no warrior. Fighting a few goblins and spiders doesn’t – _cannot_ – prepare you for the reality and ugliness of true war and the slaughter that accompanies such battles as this one. If you go outside, you _will_ die within minutes, and no one will be the better for it.”

The words hit Bilbo like physical blows – and yet they do not extinguish the reckless flame of anger growing inside him at Thorin’s complete disregard of his abilities and wishes.

“But you forget, I have the ring,” he points out, fighting hard to keep his voice devoid of the churning emotions beneath.

“The ring isn’t going to protect you from stray arrows and blows!” Thorin snaps harshly. “Besides I’d rather if you only used that thing when truly necessary. I do not trust it.”

His anger surges, hot and untameable, and his hand unconsciously curls around the pocket in which the ring lies hidden. “And what would you know about it?! Maybe you’re just jealous of my possession of such an artefact.”

Thorin jerks back as if slapped, his face closing off immediately, impenetrable walls snapping back in place. “You _will_ stay here, Bilbo Baggins,” he says coldly, rising. “I will not allow you out onto the battlefield.”

Where there had been the stirring of guilt and remorse next to his anger just a few seconds ago, now only fury is left. “How dare you? _How dare you_? What gives you the right to forbid me anything, Thorin Oakenshield?”

“I am the king and the leader of the company. You will do as I say,” Thorin returns, his voice having reached an arctic level of calm as he draws himself up to his full height.

“Well, you aren’t _my_ king!”

The words slip out before Bilbo can even think about them, his anger clouding his mind far worse than anything else could have done. He turns on his heels and strides past Thorin, leaving the dwarf standing in the hallway alone, motionless as the stone around them.

He does not even acknowledge the look of utter heartbreak on Thorin’s face that assaults the corner of his eye before Bilbo can pass him completely.

*

With every step Bilbo takes away from Thorin, his anger seems to drain away more, leaving only a growing sense of guilt and horror at his action in its wake. Only when his foot catches on something on the ground and he stumbles, nearly falling, does he shake himself from his daze enough to notice his surroundings. He is back in the great hall – blinded by rage as he had been, he must have gone into the wrong direction. A part of him is screaming to go back, to apologize to Thorin, just to do _something_ to make this right, but an equally vocal part murmurs _and what would you say? How could you ever make this right after you threw all of his weaknesses and his trust back in his face?_

Closing his eyes in shame, Bilbo hangs his head, feeling the leaden weight of the words he had uttered in anger weighing him down. When he opens them again, his gaze falls on the object he had nearly tripped over – and his mouth falls open in surprise.

Though never having seen it before, he knows without a doubt that this must be the arkenstone. There could be no mistaking the size and – admittedly – mesmerizing beauty of the jewel glinting seductively in the half-light.

His first thought is of Thorin, who would surely be overjoyed at his find, and the urge to go find him immediately is overwhelming. Yet the one that follows is tinged by doubt that it would be wise to distract Thorin with this right before battle. Then, finally, his third thought is sobering – maybe it is already too late. Suddenly disgusted by his own uncertain and pointless dithering, Bilbo leans down, scoops up the arkenstone in one motion, and, securing its heavy form in the largest of his overcoat pockets – it still only barely fits – starts running towards the gate as fast as his short legs would carry him.

When he finally reaches the great front gates, not even sparing a glance at their destroyed might when he had not been able to tear his gaze away the last time he had passed them by, the sight of the abandoned battlements feels like being doused with cold water.

Only a supreme effort of will keeps him from despairing right then and there. There would be time to make it right, time to see Thorin – after. There has to be.

*

Even standing on top of the improvised barricade, Bilbo cannot see far enough over the mass of fighting orcs, men, elves, and dwarves, cannot make out the one his gaze searches for. Looking at the ridge overlooking the valley, another way presents itself.

With a last glance at the battle, Bilbo takes a deep breath and slips on the ring.

It takes him the better part of several hours to reach his destination, partly because the ridge proves to be higher than he had expected, and partly because it is a slow going, avoiding foe and ally alike and being careful of stray arrows, mindful of Thorin’s pointed warning that even invisibility would not safe him from such a mishap.

At first his plan had been to climb the ridge, find Thorin, and then climb down again to make his way towards the dwarf at any cost. Now he realizes only the attempt to be folly. Thorin had been right – he would never get far in between all those fighters. Besides it would take too long, considering he needed several hours to even get up here in the first place.

He can only wait, and hope.

From his spot on the small mountain rise, Bilbo sees the horror of the Battle of the Five Armies unfold in far more detail than he ever could have wished. Yet despite all the chaos, his eyes chiefly rest on the dark spot he can barely make out to be Thorin Oakenshield. Even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to look away, for fear of losing sight of him forever.

Bilbo watches the dwarf who holds his heart, whether Thorin still wants it or not after their disastrous last parting, cut a swath through his enemies, his sister-sons never far from his side, with terrible fear in his heart. He knows only too well the dangers of battle, the very real possibility of losing everything he has gained – even if they have not parted on good terms before the call to arms – beseeching his mind like a dark cloud.

He watches uncounted fall on both sides and mourns.

He watches, frozen, as Thorin and Fíli and Kíli are separated from the rest of the dwarves of the company, surrounded by orcs.

He watches as one blow too many strikes the king under the mountain down, not to rise again.

He only realizes he is screaming desperately when he hears his own voice assault his ears. Bilbo rips of the ring, unheeding of his own safety – not when Thorin is lying dying or dead on this cursed battlefield. He will never know what moved him to cry, “Help! _Please_!” into the sky over and over; he will never know if it is Manwë taking mercy on him or by the grace of the eagles themselves that he finds himself born through the air by the majestic birds for the second time on this journey.

The eagles dive down to the imperilled last offspring of the line of Durin, their huge claws picking off orc after orc after warg, hurling them through the air to provide the beleaguered Fíli and Kíli some room. Though still standing strong as they protect Thorin, loyal to the end and beyond, there can be no doubt that the two young warriors would have soon laid down their lives in defence of their fallen king and uncle if not for the eagles’ timely intervention – which made it possible for a group of allies to breach the ring of orcs to support the brothers.

Bilbo’s eagle, meanwhile, gently sets him down in the cleared circle around Thorin, now protected by a ring of elves and men alike. Fíli and Kíli are already kneeling next to him as Bilbo numbly moves closer. Their heads are bent toward Thorin, one shock of now dirtied, yet still blazing blond hair, and one of gleaming ebony, so like Thorin’s own, yet a little lighter in shade.

“Fíli, Kíli.” Thorin’s voice is frighteningly weak and thready. “I am so proud of you.”

He gestures weakly for them to move even closer and bow their heads lower so he can bestow a kiss on each forehead, a gesture of good-bye.

“Lead our people well. And,” he coughs, deep and wet, “and tell your mother that I am sorry for leaving her like this and she should definitely not come after me to kill me again.”

“We will,” Fíli promises immediately, while Kíli gives a weak chuckle at Thorin’s attempt at humour (though if what Bilbo has heard about the Lady Dís so far is right, Thorin might not even be joking).

The ring of warriors around them holds, despite the sounds of fighting death surrounding them.

“Now, let me see our hobbit.”

Faces unashamedly tear-stained, Fíli and Kíli move back a respectful distance, seeking comfort in each other’s embrace as they huddle together, unheeding of anything else.

Bilbo kneels down next to Thorin in their place, everything but the wounded dwarf in front of him fading into the distance, out of focus.

“My king,” he says and hopes that these two words would convey all his regret and guilt but also his love and devotion, which had not died upon their fight. Hoped that Thorin would understand their deeper meaning, in light of his recent angry words.

“My hobbit,” Thorin whispers, moving as if to raise his arm, but the strength for the action escapes him. “I deeply regret the manner of our last parting, I would see my words taken back if you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I know I had no right to order you thusly and I could not bear there to be a grudge between us now that I have to depart these lands.”

There is so much pained honesty in his face that Bilbo cannot help but believe him – though he probably would have regardless, simply because he _wants_ the words to be true. Nothing would be worse than having to live the rest of his life with the knowledge of Thorin’s hate for his thoughtless, angry words. Of course Thorin dying would be equally horrible, but he _is_ _not_ dying, _cannot_ be dying.

Numbly he thinks this must be what denial feels like.

Bilbo even manages a small, hopefully reassuring smile. “Of course I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you, Thorin, and there’s nothing you could do to change that. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too – I know I am more at fault for what happened than you. I never meant to hurt you, I just wanted to help, to help keep you safe.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my dear Bilbo.”

Thorin coughs once, a horrible, wet sound. Bilbo stares at the blood glistening on the dwarf’s lips and feels like the world is tilting, leaving him about to free-fall with no one there to catch him.

“I’m sorry that I should leave you like this, sankurdu.” Another cough. “I shall wait for you.”

“No, no, you can’t leave, you can’t leave me now! What am I supposed to do without you when I came only for you? When I stay for you? _Fight_!”

Bilbo does not even notice the tears finally coursing down his cheeks, as he shakes Thorin’s shoulder desperately. But the dwarf king does not wake. He lies still and silent as Bilbo’s world crumbles.

Later he does not remember gently brushing a hand over Thorin’s forehead, closing his eyes for the last time. Perhaps he simply does not want to remember the last time he saw their clear, pure blue, even devoid of life.                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm sorry?
> 
> Unbetaed again.
> 
> Language notes: sankurdu = perfect (true/pure) heart


	6. Part IV: Erebor (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait - this chapter just got longer and longer and longer (which, I guess, happens when you try to cram thirteen different POVs in one chapter) and I'm still not quite sure about it, mainly because there isn't really known much about some of the dwarves of the company, which means that I had to make lots of shit up to write from their points of view. Anyway, I hope this works.
> 
> Prepare for some hope, but mostly angst.

**Part IV: Erebor (Interlude)**

*

[Kíli]

The battle is over, when Kíli sees Bilbo Baggins again after witnessing the hobbit losing the fight against grief on the ravaged battle-field.

Kíli has spent most of the time in between feeling numb and horrified, but mostly numb. This had been his first real battle and it leaves him cursing his younger self’s naivety and ignorance. Only a few months ago he had _wanted_ to enter his first battle, had yearned for the chance to prove himself – the thought that staunch Thorin, always so steadfast and staunch, might die had never even crossed his mind and now he cannot un-see his beloved uncle’s body lying limp and bloodied in between countless corpses, cannot forget the sight of an arrow thudding into his flesh, closely followed by an orc spear.

It is only natural for him to turn to his brother in search of comfort and safety from the horrors his own mind insists on inflicting on him. Perhaps it had been their station that had prompted them being offered one of the first tents that had been erected, and truthfully Kíli is too tired to care and do more than gratefully accept, dragging an only slightly more reluctant Fíli with him. No one would argue that they had not earned this respite.

Only when a nervous cough from the direction of the entrance flap disturbs their grieved silence, do the brothers split apart.

“Bilbo!” Kíli exclaims, forgetting all about custom and propriety in his relief at seeing the dear hobbit safe and unharmed. Well, at least mostly unharmed – even in the dim light of the tent Bilbo looks dreadful, pale and grimy and he is covered in blood, his usually neat appearance rumpled beyond recognition. In the light of what has happened Kíli cannot say he is surprised.

Before he can decide whether jumping on Bilbo and pulling him into a hug would be appreciated at the moment, Bilbo strides closer, a determined look set on his haunted face, until he is near enough to forcefully push an object into Fíli’s hands.

Kíli’s mouth falls open as he stares at the glittering gem now cradled in Fíli’s strong palms.

“I found it right before the battle,” Bilbo explains quietly, sounding oh so tired. He swallows hard. “There wasn’t even time to tell Thorin…”

He halts his speech for a moment, obviously expecting them to say something, but Kíli is still far too surprised at this unexpected development to do much more than stare and Fíli is gazing at the Arkenstone with a distant unreadable expression on his face.

“I figured you should have it,” Bilbo continues when the silence threatens to become overbearing, “being Thorin’s heirs and all. I certainly don’t want to lug it around with me any longer.”

Kíli finally manages to close his mouth at the same moment that his brother looks up and says, “Thank you, Bilbo. This… it would have meant much to Thorin.”

There is a faint hint of a smile on Fíli’s face. “We should bury this with uncle. A fitting last resting place, wouldn’t you agree?”

For a split second Kíli feels the urge to protest, to say that such a beautiful thing does not belong with the dead, but then the image of a bloodied Thorin flashes through his mind and he is instantly ashamed. Fíli is right, laying their beloved uncle and king to rest with the arkenstone shining upon his breast _would_ be fitting and only right. He is fiercely glad that Fíli had not noticed his moment of doubt, having had his gaze focused on Bilbo instead.

Bilbo nods, a small smile, barely there and yet somehow substantial, flashing over his face. “A decision worthy of a future king,” he murmurs, though the gratitude in his eyes speaks of a far more personal meaning.

The hobbit hesitates for a moment, then he adds, “You should know that I offered Bard and King Thranduil my part of the treasure before the battle… in exchange for avoiding a war between allies, but since they never made their decision, nor made good on what would have been their part of the deal, I should think it up to you in which way you deal with them or recompense them.”

Kíli wants to rail at Bilbo for talking politics at such a time, but the frighteningly empty look in the hobbit’s eyes thankfully stays the angered words he would have regretted later. Even a blind dwarf could see that Bilbo is suffering as much as they are, if not more. And they do owe their lives to his timely intervention. He owes _Fíli’s_ life to him. (Without Fíli, Kíli knows, he would not be alive now, either literally slain or so lost in his grief that without his brother’s anchoring, safe presence he would never find his way out of the mires of a darkened mind – even now his grief for Thorin would eat away at him and leave him hopelessly floundering, were it not for Fíli’s comforting nearness.)

Fíli simply nods. “It will be taken care of.”

Bilbo smiles at him wanly in thanks. He is already backing away, as if he is desperate to leave their presence, looking uncomfortably like he does not think he belongs there anymore.

Before Kíli can make up his mind what to do about this obvious misconception, Fíli, whose thoughts must have run along a similar line, gently calls, “Bilbo?”

The use of his first name startles the hobbit enough to make him stop and turn, staring at the two of them with startled eyes.

“Sometimes it is easier to mourn together with others and share the burden of grief,” Fíli says, his solemn gaze not leaving Bilbo’s face, and Kíli nods decisively in agreement, even though he knows that the state Bilbo is currently in, he would probably not accept the tacit offer. It is more about the message behind it anyway, the message that _we are here for you and will help you when decide you are ready_.

For a moment Bilbo looks unbearably torn, but then he chokes out, “I’m sorry, I _can’t_ ,” and fairly runs from the tent. Kíli has to swallow back his instinctive disappointment, for all that he does understand the hobbit’s reasons.

Attuned to his moods as ever, Fíli moves closer and brushes a loving hand through Kíli’s riotous strands of hair.

“I’m here brother. I’ll take care of you.”

“No,” Kíli replies, leaning into his touch. “We’ll take care of _each other_. And Bilbo.”

Fíli hums in pleased agreement and Kíli has to pretend the slow smile curving his brother’s lips is not making him think rather inappropriate thoughts, given the situation.

For all that had happened, at least they have each other. And with that knowledge they would go on and they would do their best – just as their uncle had taught them.

*

[Óin]

Óin is a healer, one of those few who are asked for miracles _after_ the battle not during it and thus more accustomed to death and dealing with its consequences than many, but even he is struck with horror at the outcome of the battle in front of the gates of Erebor (the Battle of the Five Armies, he has heard some dwarves call it, in the hushed tones of ones who have seen what they are talking about and would rather remember it by a name than their memories). The last time the count of the dead had been this high had been at Azanulbizar – he had been younger then, less experienced, during that dark day and the ones that followed, yet none of that experience seems to help him much now.

Thorin had been brought from the battle-field by Fíli and Kíli, already dead and beyond Óin’s help. Countless others had joined him at his temporary resting place at the edge of the hastily erected healers’ tents, awaiting a proper funeral. There are so many wounded that one dies for every one he manages to treat. (He does not turn the help offered by the elves of Thranduil’s host trained in the healing arts away, old feuds be damned – he will not allow more warriors to die on his watch because of past hurts.)

He is on his way back from a short break – even he cannot ignore the call of nature forever to keep tending to patients – when he almost literally stumbles into Bilbo, standing between scraggly tents looking forlorn and lost.

When the hobbit turns his gaze to Óin, there is a terrifyingly blank look in his eyes that the healer has seen far too often already, in survivors, in those left behind or irreparably damaged by battle and war.

“So much death. So much pain,” Bilbo whispers, though he is clearly speaking to Óin and only his brand new ear trumpet enables him to actually hear the quiet words. Their gazes meet. “How do you deal with it? How do you _cope_?”

“Because you have to,” Óin replies gravely, quite aware that he is not really answering the question, but even more aware that he _has_ no answer to this. Perhaps there is not one. “There will always be death. It is everyone, surrounding us constantly. You have no choice but to deal with it, in whichever way you find for yourself.”

It might sound callous, put in such stark words, but this is not a matter Óin has ever lied about, nor will he ever.

Seeing the hobbit’s devastated look, he does, however, add, “And we do what we can do lessen the suffering caused by it. That’s why I became a healer, and a reader of portends. That’s why you so often put your life on the line to safe others.”

Bilbo nods slowly, if probably little reassured. In a few weeks, maybe, Óin’s words will start to make sense, to carry weight, but right now the loss is still too raw, the devastation too close.

Neither of them says anything else – the wounded need tending too, and Bilbo’s wounds cannot be cured by any herbs or ointments Óin could provide. His grief cannot be touched by physical remedies and despite the bitter taste it leaves in the healer’s mouth, he leaves the hobbit there to do what he can for those he _is_ able to aid. And what else can he do? What can anyone do in the face of such destruction and death?

*

[Bofur]

To Bofur’s mind the funeral procession of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, is perhaps both the most glorious and majestic in dwarven history – and the most raggedly improvised. It definitely is the most honest.

They lay him to rest deep in the heart of the mountain he had given his life to reclaim, that had been his home even in exile, with the arkenstone and Orcrist gleaming on his armoured breast. When it is Bofur’s turn to step in front of the crystal coffin for a last personal farewell, he can only stare at the king’s – _his_ king’s –face, appearing more peaceful in death than it usually had been in life, with a sense of deep sadness and loss. He had never been close to Thorin like Fíli and Kíli, or Mahal help him poor Bilbo, but they had been friends in their own way, despite Thorin’s status. Bofur had looked forward to living in Erebor under the other dwarf’s rule – a future that is now barred from them forever.

He steps back again, making way for Bombur to take his place, and lets his gaze wander over the small congregation of twelve dwarves and one hobbit standing watch around Thorin’s last resting place, the air thick with sombre grief. Bofur is peripherally aware that there are more dwarves here, many of Dáin’s warriors had come and Dáin Ironfoot himself, quietly lining the walls of the hall to pay their own respect to the fallen, but his attention rests solely on their little core group. Dáin and his warriors might have fought in the battle, but none of the company would forget that he was the one who had denied Thorin his support for this venture in the first place. They were the only ones who would be able to say that they had always been loyal to the exiled king, and proud of it.

Bofur frowns at Bilbo’s standing a little apart from the rest of the company. The hobbit has as much right to stand in their midst as they honour Thorin as any of them, if not more. He has given so much for this quest of dwarves, of strangers at first.

Perhaps it is his overwhelming grief that keeps him apart (they have all seen the look that has not left his eyes since returning from the battle-field, a look he does not wish to describe and that Bofur wishes dearly he could forget). Perhaps. But Bofur still resolves to talk to him later, in private just to make sure that it is not out of some misplaced feeling of isolation. They are all here to help each other, now more than ever in the wake of the loss of their leader and Bofur will make damn sure that Bilbo knows that too.

He leaves the hall of graves on this dark day with two crystal-clear resolutions. To always remember Thorin, his honour and good leadership, and to do his best to look after those he had left behind, grieving. Maybe it is one of Bofur’s gifts that he can find purpose in everything.

*

[Bifur]

Bifur is the one who finds Bilbo curled up in an abandoned hallway far from the heart of Erebor and their current residences. It has been two days since Thorin’s funeral and no one has seen their hobbit burglar since then.

At first Bifur had been reluctant to join the search partiers – if he understands one thing it is the need to be alone after trying events, when others are intent on coddling one – but with the passage of time without a sign of Bilbo, his worry, too, had increased.

And not without cause, he thinks grimly as he catches sight of Bilbo’s huddled form in the semi-darkness, fairly exuding misery.

Bifur hesitates for a moment; Bofur is the one who is good at comforting people. But the sight tugs at him and he can hardly just leave Bilbo there – he knows what it is like to lose sight of reality for a while, whether it is caused by an axe or by death. Besides Bilbo had always been kind to him, despite the language barrier, and never treated him as anything less than the others.

The hobbit does not even stir at his deliberately heavy steps. He does not look up when Bifur grunts something in as close to a comforting tone as he comes. He does not move when the dwarf draws closer, settling down beside the hobbit with a heavy clunk. But Bilbo does curl into his warmth a little when Bifur roughly draws him closer into a lop-sided embrace, patting his shoulder somewhat awkwardly, but no less sincerely.

In this at least no words are needed, a silent rapport established. They remain in this position without regard for the minutes ticking by, until Dwalin finally literally stumbles over them.

*

[Glóin]

Having been given the task of supervising the clearing of all the major hallways and making sure of their structural integrity is both an honour and, as Glóin has found out, a definite way of losing a lot of sleep with emergency evacuations and evaluations to make sure that ceilings will not spontaneously crumble upon them (when he does fall into bed, however, he is so tired he sleeps like a brick).

The first time Bilbo shows up he looks pale and haunted, yet determined as he stands in front of Glóin with a shovel in his hand and a pleading look in his eyes that the dwarf simply cannot ignore. Who is he to dictate someone how to grieve? He can hardly bear to _think_ about a life without his beloved Lóni, or his young son Gimli, and to exert as much energy as possible while doing something useful to try to forget about reality for a while seems like reasonable enough course of action to an active fellow like him.

The first few days everything seems to go well. Though not as industrious as a dwarf through sheer disadvantage of strength, Bilbo works hard, applying himself with a diligence Glóin had come to expect and respect, if maybe not outright enthusiasm for the task. Still, Glóin keeps a watchful eye out for their hobbit burglar whenever he can spare it – and a good thing, too, as he soon notices Bilbo pushing himself further and further towards, and finally past his limits.

Glóin curses himself for having been distracted for the last few days due to one of the major passageways having threatened to collapse, when a breathless runner accosts him with the information that Bilbo had collapsed while working on one of the smaller tunnels. If he had paid more attention he _would_ have forced the hobbit to stop, even though he would have been loath to deny him this outlet.

Now he can only hasten to his fallen friend and hope that Bilbo had not done himself permanent harm with his stubbornness. Much to his relief, Bilbo is conscious and talking (well, protesting rather) when he arrives.

“Bilbo!” he calls, barely keeping his temper in check now that the worst of the worry has passed. “What do you think you’re _doing_?”

Bilbo crosses his arms in a clear expression of defiance, for all that his deathly grey pallor suggests that he is nearer to fainting than anything else. “Helping the restoration effort,” he says, the hint of sheepishness in his voice doing nothing to hide the fact that he neither sounds nor looks particularly remorseful.

Glóin glowers as he kneels down beside him, subtly checking Bilbo over for any injuries not stemming from exhaustion and coming up empty-handed.

“And we have been very glad for it,” he snaps, “but you need to _rest_. I won’t let you back here until you’ve spent several days just sleeping and eating, you can be sure of that, master hobbit.”

Bilbo glares right back, though his anger seems to be of a more general type, and not expressively focused on Glóin. He does not, however, argue, probably smart enough to either notice that Glóin is right, or at least be aware that the dwarf would not budge on this (in Glóin’s opinion Bilbo can hardly complain about others being worried about him, after all he seems to be doing none of that himself).

If he were more of a verbose type, Glóin might, at this point, have tried to offer reassurances or simply comforting words, but as it is, he settles for gently scooping Bilbo up into his arms, ignoring the rather squeaky protests, and carrying him to his quarters personally.

He also sends for Óin, just to be on the safe side – though he wisely does not tell Bilbo that. He does have some sense of self-preservation after all, and the hobbit is rather stubborn when it comes to healers (not unlike some young dwarves Glóin knows, whose names certainly do not end in –ili).

Maybe Bilbo will even thank him for it one day.

*

[Bombur]

 For someone so given to rotundness, Bombur has a certain talent for going unnoticed. Perhaps people simply overlook everything but his stomach, he sometimes thinks. Though being unnoticed himself, does not mean that he is equally oblivious to his surroundings.

The company had taken to eating many meals together over the course of each week, usually in the smaller banquet hall meant for the royal family – not that there is much of one at the moment, and Fíli and Kíli would certainly have felt lonely eating there all by themselves, so the rest of the company had unanimously decided to join them as often as their duties allowed.

It would have been hard not to take note of the subdued air at the table, the lines of grief and sad eyes present in them all. They had all lost a friend (or family) with Thorin and somehow having retaken Erebor does not seem to mean quite as much without the one who had brought this all to fruition, who had worked tirelessly to return home only to die once returned.

Still, Bombur finds himself watching Bilbo most of all, his subdued presence oftentimes all but making him invisible at the table, as he rarely offers any words or comment. He has never been particularly verbose, however, so Bombur worries more about a different truth.

Bilbo is not eating much, sometimes not at all and – though Bombur might be a bit biased on the matter – in general a lack of appetite does not mean anything good. At least not for a dwarf, and he sees no reason why it should not apply to hobbits as well, given what Bilbo has told him about their numerous meals a day (and the fond memory of his well-stocked pantry is proof enough). With a heavy heart Bombur recalls similar occurrences he had witnessed long ago. A loss of will to keep on sustaining oneself, ultimately to live, a lack of interest in pleasures and needs of the body alike.

Bombur, too, is older than he looks, having been born into the harsh times after the fall of Erebor, when their home in the Blue Mountains had been new and provision tenuous. He had grown up surrounded by far too many hollow-eyed elders, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, daughters and sons bend by grief.

Some of them had refused food as well – he had not understood back then, a youngling too often plagued by hunger (so much indeed that once they had the means, he would not _stop_ eating). Comprehension had come later, and now the burden of knowledge makes his heart hurt for their kind-hearted, suffering burglar.

He knows better than to openly confront the hobbit about the issue; instead Bombur begins leaving little bits of the Bilbo’s favourite food where he might find them, even going so far as to recruit Fíli and Kíli to sneak them into Bilbo’s quarters.

Sometimes he finds the plates empty, sometimes he does not. (They are all willing to take what they can get.)

Only once Bilbo catches him in the act, his wan smile somehow both reassuring and utterly devastating.

*

[Balin]

Fíli’s coronation is a sombre affair, much at odds with how it should have been. The lad will make a good king – he has learned much from Thorin and inherited a more level-headed character than Kíli (or is usual for the Durin line, to be entirely frank) – Balin muses, as the crown descends on Fíli’s now intricately braided blond hair and yet many, himself included, cannot help but think of Thorin at a moment that should have been Fíli’s alone. Thorin, who would be sitting in Fíli’s place right now, if he had not fallen.

Balin sighs inaudibly. He is tired, too tired and too weary. As the most senior dwarf of the company, it had fallen to him to organize and plan the coronation, never mind that he had already been quite busy organizing the recovery of Erebor and many of the issues that would have been a king’s task to deal with in the absence of one (he had not had the heart to push Fíli into matters of state so early after the grievous blow of his uncle’s death, even if the younger dwarf would have to step up now that he is officially crowned).

His gaze wanders over the gathered entourage on the dais. His eyes stop at Bilbo, who looks both uncomfortable in the finery he had been provided with for the occasion, and faintly nauseous. During the course of the ceremony Balin keeps a firm eye on him, not liking the hobbit’s continuously paling complexion in the least.

He is not surprised when, the official coronation act scarcely finished, Bilbo slips away quietly and mostly unnoticed. Directing an apologetic look at Fíli, who is one of the ones who _has_ noticed and now attempts his best not to look too worried, Balin quickly hurries after Bilbo before he can get lost in the crowd.

Balin finally catches up to the hobbit in a small secluded alcove, finding him leaning against the stone wall with such an expression of abject misery that Balin almost wishes he had not found him, just to be spared the sight – almost. He is far too old and has seen far too much sorrow to leave a friend in need.

He has made no effort to mask his approach and calmly meets Bilbo’s eyes when he raises his head. Balin knows better than to ask the hobbit what is wrong (far too many things are these days), so he simply waits.

Bilbo breaks under the silence far quicker than he had anticipated, rushed, agonized words tumbling over themselves as they leave his mouth. “I meant no insult, leaving like I did. I just had to get away.” Finding no condemnation in Balin’s kind eyes, he continues a little more measured, but no less torn. “I’m sure Fíli will make a fine king but…” Bilbo stops for a moment, then blurts out, “It should have been Thorin!”

Immediately upon the words having left his mouth, he casts his look downward, shame all too clear in his bearing.

“Yes, it should have,” Balin agrees quietly. And how could he not? He has thought the same himself, even if he has put the notion aside in favour of fully supporting Fíli. “But we’ve all made choices, and Thorin made his a long time ago.”

A flash of startled outrage passes over Bilbo’s face. “Are you saying that he chose to die?!”

Balin sighs, suddenly acutely aware of all his years weighing down on him. “Of course not, laddie, but Thorin was well aware that this quest would probably end in death for him. He took Fíli and Kíli with him because he had hope – hope of finally being able to give his people their old home back and a chance for happiness, but he kept little of that hope for himself.” He smiles slightly. “And I doubt he foresaw meeting you on the way.”

Bilbo does not smile back. Instead he looks even more cast down as he whispers in a voice wrecked by pain and guilt, “I… we quarrelled. Right before the battle. I said horrible things to him, Balin, and I fear he was not as mindful of his safety as he should have been because of it.”

Balin covers his surprise well, even though _this_ is something he had not expected. At last he can understand some of Bilbo’s behaviour. Mahal above, if he had blamed himself all this time!

“We all bear burdens of guilt, dear master Baggins, but this is _not_ one you should shoulder,” he says firmly, infusing his words with as much conviction as he can, and some of the commanding tone he has learned over years of being Thorin’s trusted advisor. He knows he needs to convince Bilbo of this simple fact, for the hobbit’s own sake. “In the midst of battle even the greatest fighter can be bested by numbers or misfortune, and Thorin refused to be anywhere but at the front of the charge. He was far too honourable and stubborn to allow someone else to sacrifice their life for him. You should know that.”

“I do,” Bilbo mumbles, still looking at the ground. He seems to shrink even further before Balin’s eyes, drawing in on himself as if aiming to vanish altogether. “I just feel… I’m lost without him. I don’t know what to do.”

That the old dwarf can understand only too well.

He bends down a little to gently touch their foreheads, holding the position for a long moment. “You, Bilbo Baggins, are going to live. You will always remember him, but _you are going to live_ and thus do his memory justice.”

*

[Dwalin]

Dwalin is not quite sure whether he should be more worried or more irritated. Probably irritated, though he knows that it is definitely worry that is clouding his mind and quickening his steps. Truthfully, when Fíli and Kíli had burst into one of his training session, shouting something about Bilbo having gone missing _outside_ , his heart had slipped into his boots faster than he can decapitate an orc (which, in case there is any question, is _very_ fast) – all of them could ill afford losing another dear member of their company, so soon after Thorin. Not that he had let his concern show, after all he still has a reputation to maintain (it is hard enough trying to teach any dwarf anything that not being respected and a little bit feared would be a disastrous fate for a weapons instructor).

Even if he had been disinclined to join the search, no one can hold out long against the Durin twins’ pleading looks, which is why he now finds himself slogging through deep snow in the biting cold in search of one wayward hobbit instead of beating some youngsters’ heads in with his hammer.

It is only through pure luck that he finally does find Bilbo, huddling behind a few tall rocks serving as windbreakers.

Torn between relief (that he has found him) and disbelief (who is stupid enough to go outside in such weather?), Dwalin stomps closer, crossing his arms.

“What do you think you’re doing, burglar?” he grunts, though he does slip of his cloak and throws it to the hobbit.

Bilbo at least has the grace to look chagrined as he clutches the cloak around himself with numb fingers. He does not look particularly inclined to move from his position.

 “I needed to breathe fresh air, to feel something other than stone under my feet,” Bilbo says quietly, and he sounds so miserable that Dwalin _almost_ forgets his ire at the hobbit’s idiocy.

“So you decided it was a great idea to get lost outside in the middle of the bloody winter and nearly freeze to death?” he growls caustically, raising a dark eyebrow.

Bilbo’s teeth chatter. “Yes, well, that really wasn’t part of the plan. Everything looks so… similar here.”

Dwalin sighs once. “If you’re trying to emulate Thorin you’ve certainly got his sense of direction right.”

He is gratified to see that Bilbo apparently still has enough energy to be offended by that. “I’m not _that_ bad! I wouldn’t get lost in the Shire!”

Only later it will occur to Dwalin that this had been the first time that he had been in Bilbo’s presence when someone had mentioned Thorin without seeing the hobbit flinch.

Chuckling lightly, he holds out his hand to Bilbo. “Come on. The caravan from the Blue Mountains has arrived, and there’s someone who wants to meet you. Preferably without any bits frozen off.”

Now Bilbo does not hesitate in grasping the dwarf’s hand to lever himself upright. He is still shivering, despite Dwalin’s warm cloak, and his feet have adopted a disturbingly pale colour, but at least his spirits seem to have lifted somewhat. Or so Dwalin thinks, it is not as if he has ever been an expert on emotional stuff.

He does make sure, however, to take the shortest way back to the main gates possible, mostly because some warmth is definitely needed for the hobbit, but also with the thought in mind that he simply cannot wait to see what Dís will make of Bilbo – those two will get along like a house of fire, he expects. And later, he is one of the few who is neither surprised nor shocked in the least to see the Lady Dís greet Bilbo Baggins from the Shire with courteous words and understanding eyes, and an invitation to accompany her to the graves of her kin later.

*

[Dori]

Dori is not quite sure when he had been designated official mother hen of the company (probably a lot earlier than he had found out about it, too, seeing as Ori had turned a particularly impressive shade of red when he had caught him at it), but although he disapproves of the way most of them seem to see it as a joke more than serious business, he does not, per say, _mind_. After all there is some truth to it and Dori does enjoy looking after others (most of the time – some dwarves are just too bloody stubborn and get into trouble far too often for his taste, particularly when it is a brother of his).

All in all, he is hardly surprised when Dwalin shows up on his doorstep with a shivering Bilbo and the obvious intention of fobbing the poor hobbit off on Dori. Then again, perhaps the grizzled warrior is simply acting in Bilbo’s best interest, since Dori has trouble envisioning _him_ as a capable nursemaid – Dwalin is far too eager to get back to bashing trainees’ heads in at the practice courts for one thing.

Tutting  to himself a little at the cold and miserable picture Bilbo makes, Dori rather forcibly pulls him inside and settles him down in the surprisingly un-dwarvish ratty old armchair he had found in a nearby storage closet with a blanket while he gets a fire going. Then he goes to make tea.

When he returns with a pleasantly steaming cup of nice jasmine blend, Bilbo has not moved, clutching the blanket tight around him as he stares blankly at the fire. With only his head and its curly mob of hair showing, he suddenly seems terribly vulnerable.

He pushes the cup into Bilbo’s hands with gentle insistence and an encouraging smile, even as his own heart grows heavy at the other’s deep sorrow.

Now normally Dori is nothing but a firmly proper dwarf (and tolerates no one saying any different, thank you very much), but in this moment he feels himself so strongly moved to comfort, that he reaches past the boundaries of propriety to gently smooth down Bilbo’s hair, carding his thick fingers through the riotous curls in a universally acknowledged soothing gesture. For a second Bilbo freezes, shocked, and Dori begins to worry that he has misjudged the situation, but then the hobbit all but falls into his touch with a barely muffled sob. The poor lad probably had not let himself really be _physically_ comforted yet at all – as stubborn as any dwarf could be in this aspect – despite the fact that such is desperately needed for healing to truly begin.

Perhaps it is the kindness in Dori’s gestures and the soft murmurs of reassurance that finally make Bilbo whisper, “I just miss him so much, _so much_. I can’t stop thinking about him, I can’t stop feeling his absence. I still see him in every dark-haired dwarf and around every corner.”

“I know,” Dori murmurs quietly.  And he does. Anyone who has ever lost somebody close to them does. His voice gets even gentler. “But you will have to let him go. It’s not healthy longing for the dead for too long.”

Bilbo stares at him with wounded and desperate eyes. “I can’t. _I can’t_.”

Dori bites back a sympathetic sigh at the last moment. This is not the time to push further. So he just smiles understandingly and says, “Give yourself the time you need.”

Bilbo makes no answer to this, but Dori is sure that his words have sunk in and will be examined again later on, and that is all that counts.

They stay together in front of the fire until Bilbo’s eyes droop low, his shivers having ceased long ago. Dori does not find it in himself to wake him from his slumber and simply leaves quietly for his own bedroom. Bilbo has earned a rest. More than that, too, but this at least Dori can give him.

*

[Nori]

Truthfully, Nori had not intended to hurt or upset anyone (this time), especially not Bilbo. It had just been his blasted curiosity rearing its head again, and he had never been very able to resist it. Dori always says he is far too curious and far too ready to do anything to assuage that curiosity for his own good (well, and everyone else’s, seeing as it manifests itself, among other things, in his quick hands and pilfering fingers). It does not help that he usually takes quite the enjoyment out of sending his far too proper brother into a tizzy.

This – standing in a circle of glaring dwarves and one too quiet hobbit – however, he had not planned. He had really not thought that giving in to his curiosity after watching Bilbo absently pat the pocket above his heart so many times by palming whatever is nestled inside at the dinner table when Bilbo had, for once, laid his jacket aside would raise such a fuss.

He knows now what the object is of course, but somehow that does not make him feel much better, still remembering the way Bilbo’s face had lost all colour when he had found the map, the precious map of the mountain that had rested near _Thorin’s_ heart for so long, missing before Nori had had the chance to return it – which he would have done. He never keeps what he steals from friends; his version of honour may be a little twisted and less straightforward than, say, Dwalin’s, but he does still have it.

One thing he is not, however, is a fool, so when Dwalin’s face had taken on the scowling, fiercely protective look he had usually only reserved for Thorin with Fíli and Kíli not far behind, Nori had immediately wised up. He did not want to hurt Bilbo more than he had already inadvertently done after all and the pure relief in the hobbit’s eyes when his little hands close around the worn parchment is more than worth his current sticky situation.

Bowing his head deeply and ignoring all the glowering dwarves around him, Nori addresses Bilbo with sincerity when he says, “I am very sorry, Master Baggins. I was merely curious and did not mean to cause you distress.”

Always the forgiving one, Bilbo accepts his apology with a short nod. Though still looking shaken, he seems to believe Nori’s words and does not seem to carry a grudge for his actions (even if his hands still have not let go of the map, fingers curled around it in unthinking possessiveness). He does, however, excuse himself to his quarters, citing tiredness with a strained smile on his lips – and leaving Nori alone to deal with the twelve dwarves incensed on the hobbit’s behalf. Well, he does deserve it.

A few days later a small item mysteriously appears on Bilbo’s dresser. The next time Nori catches a glimpse of the map it is wrapped in the soft leather binding he had worked so hard to find. He smiles. And Bilbo, who had caught the motion out of the corner of his eye, smiles back.

*

[Fíli]

Fíli stands in the doorway to his uncle’s old quarters, silently gazing at the scene within. His throat tightens painfully, dry eyes refusing their service, all tears long spent.

Bilbo is sitting on Thorin’s bed, hair wild and unkempt and clothes bedraggled – a far cry from the neat hobbit they had first met in the Shire. On his lap, a silver harp is perched (precariously, as its size almost exceeds Bilbo’s own) and Fíli cannot tear his eyes away from Bilbo’s hands stroking over strings and body with both infinites gentleness, as if it might break, a last reminder of what he has lost, and an absent-mindedness that speaks of deeper thoughts as much as his unfocused eyes raised towards the high ceiling do.

Without a doubt Fíli feels that he is intruding on something that should not be witnessed. Squashing the rising urge to protect and to comfort – for all that that is worth, as he has now learned it is not much – the dwarf turns as quietly as he can, leaving the darkened room and mourning hobbit behind.

But he does not close the doors when a whisper of a hauntingly familiar song, now with an added edge of despair, twists through the air. It feels like an ending, when it had once been the beginning.

He hates that, a few days later, he is proven right.

The timid knock on the door to his and Kíli’s quarters at evenfall immediately alerts them to the fact that it is Bilbo who is asking for entrance – dwarves usually tend to hammer against doors rather than knock.

Having wasted no time in getting up and opening said door, Fíli’s heart sinks when he sees the darkly determined expression on the hobbit’s face. But he steps aside without comment, giving Bilbo the time to prepare himself for whatever speech he had undoubtedly planned beforehand. Even Kíli remains silent and watchful, somehow having caught the tense and alert atmosphere.

As predicted, Bilbo takes a deep breath, as if stealing himself to say what he wishes to say, before he says bluntly, “I want to go home.”

Fíli had known that this day would come, but the words still sink into his heart like lead. Pushing his own emotions aside for the moment, he focuses on Kíli – Kíli who wears his emotions on his sleeve (and sometimes Fíli almost wishes it were not so easy for him to read his brother) and the wildness around his eyes that had last been there to this extent on the battle-field that they both cannot forget proves Fíli’s worst fears. Kíli would not take the loss of another he loves well.

When Kíli moves as if to protest, as Fíli had known he would, Fíli lays a hand on his arm, silently halting his brother’s words. Kíli’s wide eyes turn to him, full of hurt and disbelief and seeing such an expression on his brother’s face cuts him to the core, but he will not back down. Not in this. Not when he can understand Bilbo’s desire to try and leave all this behind, to find peace. If it were not for his duties here in Erebor, Fíli himself would be more than tempted to run back to the Blue Mountains and the shelter they once offered him, even though he knows that he could not escape the spectre of his uncle’s death there either. For Bilbo’s sake, he hopes that the hobbit will be more successful.

“We’ll provide you with everything you need,” Fíli says quietly, his voice sounding as tired and worn as he feels. It takes all of his willpower to ignore Kíli’s choked sound of denial from beside him. “And an escort at least to Lake-Town.”

He hates the look of muted gratitude in Bilbo’s eyes at his assurance, as if Fíli should be, _could_ be happy about having acquiesced to his request. He does not want Bilbo to go, does not want the person, who might have been his second uncle in a fairer world, to leave.

At least he does not have to listen to misplaced words of thanks falling from Bilbo’s lips, as the other only bows his head slightly before taking his leave. Fíli does not think he could have borne that.

Then again, there have been a lot of things happening in the last few weeks that he had thought he would not be able to bear and look at him now.

Experience now tastes bitter in his mouth.

“At least wait out the winter,” he quietly appeals, uncaring of the audible plea in his voice. “The roads are dangerous, even during fairer weather and we could not bear you to come to harm or be lost to us forever on your way back.”

For a long terrifying moment Bilbo does not say anything and Fíli is only dimly aware of his hand clenching around Kíli’s arm so tightly that his brother must feel pain (yet he does not protest, makes no sound), but then he gives a curt nod.

“I will wait,” he says hoarsely and Fíli’s relief is only slightly tempered by the resignation audible in Bilbo’s tired answer.

He smiles slightly – a true smile. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

“Don’t mention it.” The hobbit’s answering smile is barely a shadow on his face, but there is a spark of his old spirit in his eyes when he adds, “I’m not quite that suicidal yet.”

Bilbo willingly goes into Fíli’s spontaneous, yet much needed embrace, and only a moment later Kíli has joined the uncomfortable, warm, comforting, reassuring tangle of limbs and hair and grieved understanding.

*

[Ori]

Over the course of the winter Ori has become quite accustomed to the sight of Bilbo quietly shuffling into the library at all times of the day _and_ the night to quietly sit in a corner and read (or sometimes stare at maps until his eyes must be blurring and Ori cannot help but start feeling a little anxious on his behalf). They do not talk much, mostly because Ori usually waits for Bilbo to make the first step since he usually does not seem interested in company, and when they talk it is about books.

Sometimes Ori leaves tomes he thinks Bilbo might enjoy lying around in plain sight and the hobbit always smiles a little when he finds them, an expression so rare lately that Ori treasures all of them, even the smallest twitches of his lips.

Spring is nearing, when he finally decides to ask Bilbo to sit for a portrait. He had been working on a series of drawings, each depicting a member of the company, partly to practice his skill, and partly because he does not want to forget (he does not think he would, but pictures can capture a moment or a person for an indefinite time, and perhaps one day they will be needed).

Bilbo looks slightly startled at the request, but agrees without a marked hesitation nonetheless – and also manages to hold still long enough with far more patience than ninety per cent of the dwarves Ori had drawn to date.

When he is done, quick and precise strokes of ink still drying on the parchment, he hands the finished drawing to Bilbo, who stares down at it for a long while, indecipherable emotions flashing across his face.

Finally the hobbit looks back up at Ori and asks, “Do you have one of Thorin?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Ori replies remorsefully. On the journey he had never found the opportunity to ask, and to be entirely honest he is not sure he would have had the balls to do so anyway, what with Thorin always looking so gruff and forbidding.

Bilbo nods, the tightening in his face showing his disappointment, despite his silence.

Wishing that he could do something to ease his friend’s pain, Ori suddenly remembers a different set of drawings he had done, and which he thinks Bilbo might appreciate.

He has to leaf through his stacks of pictures for a while before he finds what he is searching for. The two portraits are some of the earliest he has done, Fíli and Kíli grinning out of the parchment with a youth and unburdened innocence that all of them have now lost.

These too, he hands to Bilbo, and studiously pretends not to hear the slight hitch in the hobbit’s breathing, and not to see the shimmering wetness in his eyes.

“Thank you, Ori,” Bilbo finally says. “I shall treasure these.”

To say that Ori is surprised at the impulsive hug Bilbo bestows on him next would be an understatement, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

“You will be going soon now, won’t you?” he asks a little sadly once they have separated again.

“Yes,” Bilbo replies simply, though he does not seem particularly enthused about the prospect. It is just a statement of fact. “You know I need to, Ori.”

Ori nods, and forces a smile. “Just promise you won’t leave without saying good-bye.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

This time Ori’s smile is genuine.

*

[Dís]

Dís is the one who meets Bilbo at the gate for a final farewell. The hobbit looks small and frail amongst the milling ponies and the guard troop waiting to accompany him to Lake-Town, but Dis refuses to let the picture fool her. From the very first time she had set eyes on him during her arrival in Erebor, she had seen the hidden core of strength, even steel, in Bilbo despite his grief and its visible weight on him.

“It is tradition among us dwarves to gift the ones closest to the deceased with something to remember them by,” she remarks quietly, holding his eyes with her gaze.

Taking Bilbo’s hands in her two strong ones, Dís presses Thorin’s silver and blue ring into his waiting palms. For a moment she wonders if he is aware of the significance of the jewel that had once proclaimed her brother’s status, but in the end it does not matter. She trusts Bilbo to be wise enough to look past that and acknowledge its real value.

He swallows hard and she can feel his hands shaking just a little. “I can’t accept this. There are so many who have known him longer – ”

“That doesn’t weaken your own claim to his heart,” Dís interrupts him resolutely. “Nor does it weaken the pain in yours. Take it.”

Bilbo’s hand closes around the ring. “It seems kindness runs in your family.”

As this Dís laughs, clear and high, a pleasant sound were it not for the edge of grief in her voice that lends it sincerity instead. “You truly are as delightful a fellow as they say,” she says, eyes twinkling a little brighter. “Maybe you should tell that to my sons – they get up to ever so much mischief.”

Bilbo returns her smile. “Yet they do it kindly.”

Dís nods, but her thoughts have sobered again. “If you still ask why, despite my brother’s love for you, think of this: through your doings alone my sons are still alive. There’s nothing in this world or the next that I could give you worth that much. You will always be welcome in our halls, Bilbo Baggins, Dwarf-friend. Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil.”

“Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal,” Bilbo returns the formal farewell, inclining his head. The words sound strange and stilted coming from his lips, but they are recognizable nonetheless.

Perhaps she should have been more surprised at his knowledge of ancient forms of Khuzdul farewells, but then again, she had noticed how much time he spent in the library, pouring over dusty tomes. And though it is forbidden for a dwarf to teach their secret language to outsiders, no one has ever thought to forbid an outsider acquiring the knowledge all by himself – a neat little loophole if Dis says so herself.

She watches silently as the hobbit mounts his pony with what looks to be practiced ease.

The last any member of the line of Durin sees of Bilbo Baggins is his retreating back, almost hidden between the burly dwarves surrounding him, and his refusal to turn around for a last look.

Wise lad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mahzirikhi zu gang ghukhil = I wish you a save journey
> 
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal = May we meet again with the grace of Mahal 
> 
> The name Loni, which I chose for Gloin's wife who remains unnamed in canon, is taken from the Poetic Edda (Tolien himself got most of his dwarf names from there, so I figured it makes sense).
> 
> Still unbeta'd. Comments are adored!


	7. Part V: The Shire & Rivendell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual, as this is mostly a filler chapter (and I'm, regrettably, crap at writing Hobbits). I hope it's still worth the read...

*****

Grief, Bilbo finds, comes in waves, once the first drowning deluge has somewhat abated. Some days he is fine, manages go without thinking about things past when busying himself with restoring his garden and hobbit hole to their former comfortable glory, and later with Frodo who grabs his heart and makes off with it so quickly he scarcely has the time to protest. Other days the weight of despair – and longing, always longing, to somehow see Thorin again, speak to him again, touch him again – is so great he scarcely moves from his bed all day, too drained to go about his day like everything is normal; because whatever he might be telling himself on his better days, it is not normal. His life has not been normal since he set foot out of his home to join a band of dwarves in their mad quest for their homeland and it had been foolish of him to believe even for a second that returning to the peaceful Shire would simply give his life the innocence back it had held before.

As much as it pains him, he now knows that he will never truly fit in the Shire again. Much as his heart will never forget Thorin and the hole his passing has left in Bilbo’s life. Sometimes he thinks he does not want it to either – after all memories are all he has left now.

Seeing the peace of the Shire and the innate joy and cheerfulness of all hobbits (except for the Sackville-Bagginses that is), so unchanged from when he had run out his door so many months ago, Bilbo now feels alien and misplaced in his own home, taking to staying inside Bag End most of the time and not socializing much – very unhobbity behaviour, to be sure.

He begins writing the first winter after his return from Erebor, when the world outside turns cold and dark (Bilbo had never liked the cold, not after the Fell Winter of 2911, and now that loathing has only strengthened, fuelled by memories of Erebor’s cold halls and a freezing wind blowing down the mountain’s flanks). At first it is only silly little things, poems with amusing rhymes or depicting life in the Shire, as he stays away from anything even remotely related to his quest and dwarves in general as far as possible, afraid of stirring up things that should not be stirred. Then his interest turns to the elves, however ironic that may be, and he spends a long while learning Sindarin and bits of Quenya and reading anything he can get his hands on, before going so far to attempt translations.

Slowly he readjusts to life in the Shire, finding joy once again in its green nature and affable inhabitants on his better days, though he finds he has been labelled as ‘mad Baggins’ in the meantime. There are still bad days, days that he wishes to have nothing to do with the outside world as he loses himself in grief, but they are fewer now, as he learns to live with Thorin’s death and the grief it causes.

Frodo comes as a surprise. At first as a tragic one, considering Primula and Bungo’s untimely demise – and drowning no less! – but his presence soon becomes a joy and a treasure to Bilbo, as the young hobbit drags him back into a more normal life with the unhesitating love and affection that only the young possess.

*

“Why are you so sad so often?” Frodo asks him one day, sitting in bed after the (second) bed time story of the evening. He is possessed of a strange mix of sombreness and a more natural childish energy, perhaps because of his parents’ death aging him beyond his years and a deep seated love of life mingling with that horrible experience. It certainly makes for very sudden mood changes, from quiet and brooding to jumping around like a bunny rabbit in a matter of seconds.

Bilbo is quiet for a moment, a little thrown at the sudden change of topic. “The same reason you sometimes are, dear Frodo.”

He does not offer more information, and for the time being, Frodo seems content with his answer. Bilbo knows there will be questions later, though – the child’s natural inquisitiveness would settle for no less.

(He hopes he has time until then, still too weary and sore to speak of his loss.)

He smooths down the covers around Frodo, dimly recalling Dori doing the same thing for him once, what now feels to be a long time ago, and says, “Go to sleep, lad. You’re meeting Merry and Pippin tomorrow, remember?”

Frodo nods happily around his tell-tale sleepy yawn and obediently closes his eyes. Bilbo stays at his bedside until he is sure the fauntling is fast asleep, as is his habit. For a while, when Frodo had first come to stay with him, he had been so restless that he had had to check up on his little charge several times a night to settle his mind and assure himself he was still there. His fears have faded with time, and nothing more exciting happening than a few over-eager young hobbits trampling half his cherished tomato stocks, but there is still a slight hitch in his heart whenever he turns his back on the mob of dark hair tucked between pillow and blanket, which so reminds him of someone else’s.

*

Strangely it is during one of the yearly performances of the Hobbiton choir that Bilbo finally loses a hold over his emotions in public. He had been doing better, truly he had – days even went by without him thinking about Thorin (which had disturbed him at first, that he could start to forget until he remembered that Thorin surely would not have wanted him to wallow in grief forever) and when he did, sometimes fondness managed to overshadow grief and loss – but something about many voices joined in song in an outpouring of emotion, of _heart_ , breaks something loose in him.

Bilbo does not even notice the silent tears spilling down his cheeks, until Frodo tugs at his hand insistently with a worried frown and asks, “Uncle Bilbo, why are you crying?”

He looks down at his ward through tear-blurred eyes. “They sing beautifully, do they not?”

Frodo nods, though obviously still confused. And concerned. “You aren’t hurt?” he presses, wide blue eyes glued to Bilbo’s face as if to discern the answer simply by looking hard enough (or at least to notice if Bilbo lied).

“No,” Bilbo chokes, a smile slowly widening on his face. “I’m _healing_.”

And he almost has to laugh at Frodo’s expression, which clearly says that the little hobbit has serious doubts about that statement and the next words out of his mouth would probably be ‘doesn’t look like it, Uncle Bilbo’.

Bilbo lays a gentle hand on his nephew’s shoulder and smiles down at him, voice warm as he remonstrates, “Truly, I am.”

Of course then a whole bunch of familial relations, who had unfortunately noticed his loss of composure – all it takes is one person noticing and all of sudden everyone knows –  descend on him with a gaggle of (mostly) worried noise and questions, which of course only cements Frodo’s conviction that something must be wrong.

Bilbo sighs and draws on the music still playing through his mind to give him strength to deal with his relatives.

*

News from Erebor is slow to travel and sporadic. Balin is the one to occasionally visit – as the official go-between between the colony in the Blue Mountains and Erebor, he is required to travel between the dwarf settlements once every two years, and generally uses it as an excuse to stop by in the Shire. From him Bilbo learns of the prospering of the Lonely Mountain and its new (old) inhabitants, and he is glad. Fíli, it appears, has taken to sudden kingship rather well even in the long run, the beginnings of which, and his talent for fair and efficient ruling, Bilbo had already been able to see during his stay years ago. And of course there is always Prince Consort Kíli at his side. The thought of the two of them together never fails to bring a smile to Bilbo’s face, along with the pangs of longing to see them again, one more time. But he has Frodo, and they have Erebor and each other, so he puts those thoughts aside.

Once he asks Balin, against his better judgement, why they never visit him and the pained sympathy on the wizened dwarf’s face immediately makes him regret the question.

“They understand why you left, laddie, and place no blame on your shoulders, but _leave_ you did, perhaps when they would have needed you the most,” Balin says quietly, with that air of regret that he rarely seems to be without these days. “Time passes slower for us dwarven folk, and as our lives are longer, so does our grief cling tighter. A decade, or two, or three, are barely enough to blunt the edges of loss.”

There is no accusation in his words and eyes, yet they settle in Bilbo’s mind like leaden weights.

So the hobbit can only swallow hard and nod, because that too makes sense.

(Years later, when he resides in Rivendell and the days have scarcely lightened again after the destruction of the ring, a raven brings news from Erebor and of the King’s demise alongside his brother in the Battle of Dale and the following Siege of Erebor and Bilbo remembers Balin’s words and thinks that, perhaps, Fíli and Kíli had not minded death much, as they perished side by side.)

Bofur visits once, and spends a week full of laughter and old tales, much to Bilbo’s, and especially Frodo’s pleasure, whose thirst for stories and adventures is only growing with age.

(Bilbo is not quite clear on his own stance on the subject. On the one hand he can hardly scold Frodo for it, seeing as he himself did go on an adventure, and is glad for it most of the time, on the other hand he can hardly bear the thought of Frodo in so much danger with the possible reward of a broken heart.

In the end he does nothing, for he does accept that Frodo is not, and will never be, him and will have his own fate to deal with.

Well, perhaps he does encourage him just a tad, if only to see the bright spark of eagerness in his nephew’s eyes – and the scandalized faces of the Sackville-Bagginses and half of Hobbiton at Frodo’s antics.)

There is also an astonishing amount of ale involved as well, since Bofur seems to have made it his life’s goal to manage to imbibe as much of the stuff as possible (as long as it is free, of course) and has improved vastly since they had seen each other last, which is quite a feat in Bilbo’s opinion.

It is Bofur who tells him details of the old company members’ new lives (Balin brings news, but generally tends to stick to the political side of things, as if he does not wish to upset anyone by talking about their private business). About his own growing family, Bombur’s brood of kids, Bifur’s rekindled love of toy-making, and – much to Bilbo’s surprise – Dwalin’s settling down with a fine dwarrowdam, already calling three dwarflings his own. Somehow, a domestic Dwalin is difficult and slightly terrifying thing to imagine, but Bilbo is glad for him nonetheless.

Bofur does not talk much about Fíli and Kíli, whether to spare Bilbo or because there is not much to say the hobbit cannot tell, though he doubts it is the latter, if they are still anything like the two young dwarves whose rambunctious nature he had come to love during their journey.

At the end of the week Bilbo is quite sure that Frodo will be forever in awe of the sunny and kind dwarf with the weird hair and ever-present hat. At least the hobbitling will probably get over his case of hero-worship with time.

*

He starts writing his book, _There and Back Again – A Hobbit’s Tale_ – during what would become his last few years residing in Bag End. He knows, deep down, when he sets the quill upon the pristine beige pages of the book bound in blood red for the first time, that he is getting old and at least this part of his life would soon be over. He has grown restless, yearning for the past again (for all that he has managed to let it lie for so many years of mostly peaceful life in the Shire), and the desire to finally formally tell his tale for the world – or well, at least for Frodo – to see so that it would not be forgotten had grown too much for him to stall any longer.

Later he thinks that he probably should have expected the written story to end up differently from what had actually transpired. For one thing his flair for story-telling gets in the way, and for another he discovers many memories too precious and too private to be immortalized in words of stark black on white – memories he has not cared to revisit for many years, a sad truth he now regrets, for they bring joy, also – and when he looks at the finished end product, sitting on his favourite secluded bench in Rivendell, he finds that, while certainly a good tale and altogether true, any member of the company would probably find it strange for all the things he has left out.

Well, truth is in the eye of the beholder after all, and as the author he reckons he has the right to edit a bit here and there. It is not as if his _special_ relationship with Thorin is particularly important to the overall plot or interesting for anyone safe the people involved anyway.

His hands slide over the by now well-worn and slightly faded binding once more, perhaps with a little more reverence than a mere book deserves, as it is the memories that went into it that prompt the gesture.

It is ready now, even if a part of him wants to cling to it a little longer, and it is time for Frodo to receive his inheritance – and add to it, though of what nature his nephew’s tale might be, he does not yet know.


	8. Part VI: Valinor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this it (FINALLY) the end! I hope you've all enjoyed this story and thank you so much for reading - extra thanks to those kind enough to leave a comment.
> 
> Hopefully hearts are mended just a little bit by this last chapter :)

*****

Bilbo Baggins had certainly never entertained the notion or even dreamed that he might one day find himself on an elven ship bound westward to the Undying Lands, along with a wizard, several elf lords, and his nephew, whose own adventure had apparently turned out to be even more damaging and fraught with danger than Bilbo’s had all those years ago.

He also had not expected the tiredness and sheer dullness of the mind that comes with age suddenly creeping up on one, the way whole days blend into each other and he keeps forgetting who he is with, what they have just talked about. A younger him would have been terrified by the notion of, perhaps, being not quite _there_ mentally, but with age had also come a slightly mellower, more pragmatic view on life – and truth be told, he is not feeling particularly bad, just a little woozy more of the time than is strictly speaking normal. Or maybe it is – he has never grown old before, after all (and grandfather Mungo _had_ seemed a little dreamy in his later years, now that Bilbo thinks about it).

Though later he will remember snippets of conversations with Frodo and sometimes Gandalf and Elrond, most of the journey flies by in a blur of sleep and blue all around them, and the first Bilbo really feels aware of his surroundings again, is when the ship finally reaches its destination.

The white sand under Bilbo’s feet is almost soft when he first sets foot onto the shores of the Undying Lands.

The first thing that he notices is that the beach is deserted. A not entirely small part of Bilbo had wished for people (Thorin) to be there to greet him, even though he knows that such hope is futile, for Thorin is dead and the dead do not walk among the living. Yet he had hoped.

And still he feels strangely invigorated, as if the burden of his many years has lifted – he feels _young_ again. Raising a tentative hand to his face, he is astonished to feel no wrinkles, just smooth skin and his curly hair of old. And that is the second thing he notices.

“You revert to the state of being when you were the most happy,” Gandalf explains quietly from next to him. Bilbo had not even heard him coming, so distracted had he been by the sudden changes in himself.

He nods, entirely unsurprised that he seems to be inhabiting his fifty year old body once more. “The quest,” he states thoughtfully. “Around Lake-Town I would imagine.”

Gandalf nods, smiling. “It is good to see that my decision to drag you along on this adventure all those years ago has not been regretted. And has turned out rather for the best, without trying to give myself undue credit.”

“Yes, I would say so,” Bilbo agrees, a little distractedly as he is still busy staring at his smooth, unwrinkled hands. Well, whatever else might happen, at the very least he would be able to hold a quill properly again without having to look out for his shaking fingers and the resulting ink splashes.

And only then, when he finally looks up and around himself, he notices the unreal, breath-taking beauty of Eldamar laid out before him and stares for a good long while.

Yet, when the first moment of awe and the first few sunrises over the sparkling water have passed, and his elven friends have shown him many of the wondrous places to be found here (more wondrous than anything he could ever have imagined), a loneliness returns to his heart, along with a yearning that not even the beauty of the home of the Valar can ease.

*

Gandalf finds him sitting quietly in his favourite spot at the shore, as he stares out on the impossibly blue sea, only little waves disturbing its flawless peace. He thinks it might have been around two months since their arrival, but time passes strangely in the Undying Lands – if it passes at all, the sun rises and falls and yet nothing _changes_ , and any perception of time might simply be a comforting routine he clings too.

“You have been brooding, my dear friend,” Gandalf observes, voice grave as ever as he sits down beside him.

“I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to brood here, Gandalf,” Bilbo returns, keeping his tone deliberately light. He does not turn and look at the wizard, but keeps his gaze fixed on the hypnotizing motions of the sea in front of him.

Gandalf snorts, an undertone of amusement colouring his blatant disbelief (he always did call Bilbo out on his bullshit). “If that is so, Bilbo Baggins, then you’re doing an admirable job of attempting to do the impossible.”

Bilbo does not say anything. He _knows_ that he should be happy, that this is a place – _the_ place – to be happy in and cannot help but feel as if his unintentional surliness somehow taints the atmosphere around him. Yet, he is _not_ happy, is not content for all that he tries to be – there is always something missing.

Gandalf has been regarding him with that especially piercing looks he gets when trying to work something out for himself or come to a difficult decision (and Bilbo does not even have to look at him to know that that is the look he is sporting) and now sighs deeply.

“I had wished to avoid this,” he says quietly, his brow creased in what some might have called frustration or annoyance, but Bilbo sees the fond glint in his eyes, “but it seems that you have truly given your heart away.” He smiles a little at Bilbo’s faint surprise (though the hobbit should have known, really, Gandalf always seems to understand everything after all). “There are not many who would not find happiness in Valinor, Bilbo, and all who do have this in common.”

Bilbo makes a non-committal sound which probably does nothing to hide the sudden curiosity blooming in him. He has not talked to anyone about Thorin for, well, he cannot really remember when the last time had been, but it certainly has been a long while. Not that he has talked to Gandalf about it either, but then again Gandalf rarely needs to be told anything.

“The children of Aulë who have perished gather in the Halls of Mandos to wait for the last battle and the renewal of the world.” Gandalf’s voice has gone utterly serious, not even a glimmer of his usual humour or mischief remaining. “If you are completely certain that that is where you wish to be, you can go there, Bilbo, and spend the rest of eternity as we know it among your dwarven friends.”

Gandalf pauses, and Bilbo, firmly ignoring the suddenly frantic, hopeful thumping of his heart, raises an eyebrow. “And what’s the catch, Gandalf? If it were as easy as that you would have told me ages ago.”

“Indeed, I would have,” Gandalf sighs. “You must remember that Mandos’ Halls are the realm of the _dead_ , Bilbo. You are allowed entry if your heart has a claim to it, but you would never be allowed to leave. The dead and the living do not mingle.”

Oh. Bilbo’s heart sinks. “Frodo,” he whispers, more to himself, a sharp stab of pain accompanying the thought of leaving his sweet, burdened nephew behind forever.

But if it is a choice… he has had decades with Frodo, and plenty happy memories of their shared time. With Thorin however (and Fíli and Kíli and Bofur and everyone else) there had been precious little time together and now there is only the ever-present ache of _what should have been_ to keep him company. And he cannot deny that his heart has long longed to see the beloved heir of Durin once more – and never let him out of his sight again.

As much as the thought of abandoning Frodo hurts him, he knows that if he chooses to stay where he is at the moment, he will never find true happiness (and a small, selfish part of him argues that after everything he has gone through, has he no earned that, at least?).

“Would I never see him again? Even after this battle you’ve mentioned?” he finally asks Gandalf, who has waited patiently for him to sort out his thoughts.

“You would not see him for a very long time indeed. It is my belief that after the _Dagor Dagorath_ all Children of Ilúvatar will be reunited on the face of the new Arda. But know that my knowledge is limited, for neither Eru nor the Valar have been very forthcoming on the subject and my guess is that the latter might not even know what will happen after the Second Music.”

Bilbo nods along, though he cannot pretend that he has understood everything that Gandalf has just said, safe for ‘the future is uncertain’. Yet Gandalf believes there is a chance, and one thing he has always done is trust in Gandalf. And even if he is wrong, well, for Bilbo there has never been much of a choice in this matter.

“Then my choice is clear,” he says, voice strong as he meets Gandalf’s eyes.

Gandalf’s lips twitch into a small smile, caught between joy and sadness. “Still so brave, my dear friend, after all these years.”

For a short moment he appears like a young man, years of age and experience wiped from his face as he stands up and proclaims, “Thus shall it be.”

But when he turns back to Bilbo, all the hobbit can see is his kind companion of old. “I will come for you on the morrow. You should make your goodbyes.”

Bilbo nods tightly, not in the least relishing the prospect. Gandalf’s hand is warm when it comes to rest on his shoulder. “I, at least, will do my best to pop by now and again. There are some advantages to being a Maia after all.”

Bilbo cannot help but smile at that and when he looks up from his clasped hands again Gandalf is gone.

*

When he tells Frodo early the next day just as the first rays of sunshine illuminate the land, his nephew looks at him with sad eyes, which still look far too old for his body, and no surprise at all. For a moment Bilbo wonders if Gandalf had warned him, but in all probability he had just been more obvious than he had wished to be in his disquiet, and Frodo had always been a quietly observant lad. Not that he is a lad anymore, but Bilbo suspects that in his heart he will always remain one. An uncle first and a rational being second.

Minutes pass before Bilbo finally tears himself away from their last embrace and turns away with a last smile. He does not look back to see the solitary figure of the only living hobbit in Valinor receding into the distance.

One other he bids goodbye before Gandalf arrives and Lord Elrond receives the news that Bilbo will leave to live with dwarves with graciousness tempered by sorrow. They have grown dear to each other during the years Bilbo has spent in Rivendell, but Elrond, with his intrinsic far-sightedness, has always known that Bilbo’s heart is still searching for its true resting place and would never begrudge the little hobbit that. In the end, they part gladly.

Gandalf at least, when he comes, Bilbo does not have to bid farewell, a reassurance in the face of changing his life permanently and forever. The Istari would remain and continue to offer his wisdom and guidance should Bilbo ever need it, much as he is now guiding the hobbit towards the Halls of Mandos.

Somehow Bilbo is not surprised that the entrance to the dead’s last resting place is marked by huge gates hewn from black stone.

Standing in front of the tall doors, Bilbo cannot help but feel small, yet when Gandalf turns to him with an unspoken question, he only takes a deep breath and nods firmly. He is sure and as ready as he will ever be, the thought of Thorin urging him on.

The dark portal opens to Bilbo’s hesitant touch. Light spills out, and with it the shadow of a distinctly dwarven figure.

An achingly familiar deep voice rumbles, “Took you long enough, âzyungel.”

As a wide smile spreads across his face, Bilbo muses that somehow, he cannot think of a single more romantic thing that Thorin could have said.


End file.
